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Braughing Ford

 


They rested here upon this wooden seat,
greeted passers by they never knew,
laughed at the boys water-fighting
in the stream, ate delicious pasties from the shop,
unscrewed their plastic cups for tea and sighed
with the pleasure of another day.

The beggar geese ignore him now
seeming to sense her absence.

The bone fine Wedgwood sky,
cloud shapes morphing as they slither by,
mallards floating on cool watery grass,
gentle lullaby of trickling stream

seeping slowly beneath this bridge
are painted thin upon the scene
this space beside him
empty with his loss.

 

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