Across memory’s autumn-dug, fragrant soil;
Below wheeling, squealing gulls
A sixty-some summer’s man
Limps up a rising, pot-holed track
With a bent back and a broken barrow,
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By a skein of light grey bonfire smoke
And the young faerie sparks that dance within it.
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Reblogged this on Muck, Line and Thinker.
Great combination of poem and photo! Dwight