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The hanging gardens at the Barbican

Bluster in the October wind

Lifeless as its force rescinds

The burgeoning that early Spring began.

Geraniums shrink into their pots

High above the flustered lake

Where thrashing fountains try to make

The tourists feel contented with their lot;

But it's too late, darkness has come again

And I must rise and go to sleep

Without the sunlight which could keep

My world from sinking back into its pain.

Brian Hick October 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 10.11.23