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    By Dominic Ward

Amongst the rushes, a blade, shining at its edge, kneels down before me.  Crossing over it, I pass on to a mirror of blue, disturbed by streaming forms like ribbons of gut, poison if I fell under the blade.   

The mirror gives way to a grass bank under a willow tree.  Summer this place is named, a fen below tired stables wearing ever still in a sleepy rot in a forgotten down, ground under foot equine, rain carrying off botulin.   

With a magnifying glass from my pocket, I burn a coal into a driftwood.  A pale smoke rises serpentine, up, until the kingfisher sky catches it and it is gone.   

The sun has not yet turned autumnal. 




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