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a sullen light through vapour thins a line of hills the edge of everything is nothing whipped by wind watched on a webcam bound to a bedpost gag on my shaft rose blush of roadkill rabbit insides out on Tarmacadam TOM PICKARD | 14

cumulus in a tarn its fast shadow flees far hills a wave of sleek grass skiffs mist my hand thought of her a photograph waiting to happen 15 | WINTER MIGRANTS

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TOM PICKARD | 14

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