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by John Stocks

This sense of place
The tides
The grey and broiling sea
The cliffs
The gulls
The curve of bay
The sleepy, sensual dreams
Gazing at a midday shadow moon
Haunting above the barricane.

And you take the wrapper from your ice-cream
And stand sun-dazed, mute,
Words stolen by a gusty wind,
Your childhood stretching before you like a dream
Still as deep and wide as an endless ocean.

Copyright © 2006 by John Stocks

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