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Dread Was , Michael Dransfield

Dread Was, in the winter
week-old snow without a foot print.
In spring, it was
a great web woven by
spiders
across the doorways & upon the door.
Summer sped the frail of my love
to no safe harbour.
When autumn came,
it came alone
& the only presage
was dead leaves, & a
bare page in the
volume my heart had once begun to write.
Rain returned
sometimes
but she did not.
Even
beyond the moat of retrospect
she is not so far i can forget.

From : Collected Poems

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