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THE EDGE OF DAY

A clear-cut stream frisks
Over moss-leathered granite –
Stones smooth from ancient moulding
Of a pattering current’s constant pressure,

And I dabble my gritted, bare feet,
Suddenly stark-chilled, as the hazy sun
Draws its corrugation of dust-curtains
Over the wave-cornfields, to turn and twist
Like assembled flocks of starlings’
Soaring arch in grey-black clouds.

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