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Burning
English summers, often damp, can invoke long stifling twilights
Nothing landbound needlessly moves
Contrails crayon across the sky
So many, this close to London’s hub
Distantly, the buzz of a low plane, pleasure rider reaching up
Into the realm of the starlings as they sussurate
A car comes past in the lane droning away round the curves
Here the runway cross remains
The old...
Friday 26th May 2017 2:08 pm
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