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September 21st, 2013

John Hermon: ‘Winter at Somerton’



Water like glass,
but where the expectant mallards wait
the circled progress of their petty paddling
ripples the mirror of the winter skies.
The boundary between the material and the ephemeral
reflected world
deceives the eye.
The weary sun
retires at last to his hammock of cirrus cloud
strung high between long-shadowed poplars,
and draws across the sky a celestial curtain
of twilight shades
before he sleeps
and yields his kingdom to the encroaching night.
Amazed at such beauty,
appalled at such cruelty,
the world holds its breath.

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