Clouds not quite fog, a curfew ignored by japing seals
And heeded by the poppies, which purse their bells
Encrimsoning the dim field. A poking curlew queries
The sand with a bill like a blind woman's stick
Jabbing the exclusive truth of what yields.
Your afternoon sighs, weary of sunlight, flowers,
Exhausting the season of light,
Refusing me words and the ready communion
Of wordlessness.
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