![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4iRvHkuZsVZcTUkVCEk4cE7zDJu_MsDn95vm8vRfzoO8RumruAe_2tqV9ZPfdCXiKG0Z_CS_s7lzj3CcpofuGG36yXYl5lCqhli2oOb7oJvITImfcDDF7sZTffZ4_ZKe0-7AkaAUXKs/s400/3030351845_4eec0308f1_m.jpg)
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A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
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There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens
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