The clouds were so strange that day

spilt powder over duck-egg veneer

a clandestine pincer and loose, flaking bough.

the hour the clocks stopped,

and the sea, through fence and fig-grove

breathed one last heavy overture,

(and there was much waving, and there

was solemn prayer, and repeat)

the shadows moved as warning signs

over verdant emerald mesh.

There I looked in ...

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