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February dawn; an owl calls across

The wood, solitary, from the darkened trees

Slumped below the blunt edge of the foss.

February dawn.

Grey haze against the placid blue exceeds

Dulled expectation after weeks of loss

But nothing grows except the insipid weeds

Down runnels or amongst the rotting dross

Of autumn's memory, while summer's seeds

Cling silently below the winter moss,

February dawn.

Brian HIck February 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 8.2.23