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Poetry

October

By Esme Bell

This gold afternoon tastes of crying – 

A scalded throat caught in hoar-frost

Breath and last-time wistful sun. Leaves, day, 

Year – all wryly clench their trembling chin, 

Strong as the sky, who veils her damp eyes 

In gulping cloud. Like Persephone, 

They know the end: feel the pricking

Of pitiless stars and the canine 

Leanness of watchful early dusk. 

We walk back under this mourning,

These plaintive funeral jewels –

And we are glad, we say, to reach home.

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