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Poetry

Meadow

See here, her corymbs and spires like stanzas in a morning’s song
Who sang for Lancashire where now, such choirs, in their majorities are gone;
The flowers we have are left to stand a strange portend for those that shone;
And now bereft, some others sing a wild lament: an even song
For lost spires of bloom, abused by those to whom their beauty there once lent.

Poems