Joseph Allen
Nocturne
We are formed by the years
each age forces itself through.
Beneath the trees
time is slow,
horses move across the fields.
From the park you catch a burning,
the gardeners clearing leaves,
broken branches.
It comes like this,
days pass unnoticed
season runs to season.
In the pigeon shed
you carelessly toss
dead squabs in the bin.
Page(s) 24
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