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Turn Of The Tide
Low ripples creep in eager waves,
Reclaiming grains of wind-blown sand,
To lay them flat within the damp, cemented matrix,
By degree, each one,
In exposed space,
Is over-run,
Again with water weight,
Where fine currents caress and roll,
The grains that had once been free.
Sunday 22nd January 2017 9:22 pm
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