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The Hill
 
She turned at the top of the hill and looked back
a puddle of dogs at her feet
and drawing a joyful breath cried out
here, here he first had me…
meaning a long dead poet.
                                         The land below was beet
where it wasn’t fallow, and you could trace
the path up from the stile, the small blue car
tucked into the hedge, the boiled sweets
on the dashboard and the dog too sick to climb
lolloping about on the back seat.
                                                   Clouds
were coming in from Rotterdam across the sea,
the dogs were in raptures chasing rabbits
                                                               and I thought
how very likeable she was
for referring to her long dead poet like that,
and for throwing her military pants into the air
to his joy
while the planes droned over or fell in the sea.
 
 

 

 

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