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father poem

rocked in the cradle of the deep
a few more windy days
by the rude bridge
in september
but i cannot read you now
up and down he goes
among the mountains i wandered
out of the deep and the dark
beautiful, tragical faces
just now
into the silent land
as i lie roofed in, screened in
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
sun and wind and beat of sea

 



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