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  • On a grey October day
    I walked,
    head down, hands in pockets,
    by the shuttered farmhouse.
    Paint peeling.
    Kitchen windows blank.
    Apple tree
    shaggy with lichen.
    Grass grown tall.
    Stiff regiments of spruce
    breech the old stone wall.

    Only the silence called
    but I paused.
    Looked up
    head cocked.

    The lowering sun broke through,
    caught the gnarled
    apple tree.
    The apples,
    suddenly bejewelled
    bent the red light
    to my eye.
    The sun
    The light
    The tree
    The apple
    and I,
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