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12

I half expect to meet her coming back here at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, though she will scarcely recognise the child whose look must puzzle her, who never left this place, still at the door of a red-tiled hall, and just staring, silently bereft.

This must be when I fall in love with her in the full light of a drizzly cold day, on a stone path that’s damaged past repair, its ground never imaginable-away, where I watch in her eyes only the dark that must come in between us, both apart, to bring a night sky without star or spark: I see the end, even here at the start.

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