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Break in Granite The mouth gorps and rain drifts in. Down in its throat, the smell of dirt and pearl-marl crack – the sky risen in its black corona. Two walkers stop, make a play of shelter and go, the storm not over – no pause to watch the link in weathers. Too much junk, its quartz is broken bottles and strata sodden newspapers. The wind howls and this fault comes back into the light. |
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