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The Thirteenth Hour | A Poem by Dan Tindall

These elderly invaders
Have long since gone
Native on the poor rocky
Soil and ancient drainage
Where Bold Kevin
His chainsaw
And his musical ear defenders
Cut logs for fuel from
The fallen corpses left by
Unexpected storms

Business has no place here
In the shadow of fierce uplands
Where desperation breeds resignation
Just at the moment
When cooperation should
Confront change
And so wrap its many selves
In a warm layer of
Birdsong and light

The blue plume of the two-stroke
Lingers and seems
For a second to
Look west
Then is dispersed
Conveniently forgotten
Amongst the restless pollen clouds

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