Catherine Simmonds
River
Put from the hill
down
the lines
falling,
pressing
into the clay’s
mind.
Your touch
prints,
such vowels
the trees
fold
in their winter.
The valley
wreaths,
huge
its shapes
of hands
passing us on.
- soft
to the sea’s gait
the brow,
slips under
- tracing.
Page(s) 100
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