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Quiet Of The Morning
AS (16th March 1943 / Portland, Dorset England)

Quiet Of The Morning

As the mist swirls in the valleys
And drifts across the fields
The ghostly shadows harden
And the ancient trees appear
Old Oaks with giant branches
And waists that spans their years
Stand proudly dripping water
From mist as though of tears
In a gentle silent clearing
Between these ancient trees
Stands a broken fallen cottage
Gnarled red ivy round its eaves
In this quiet silence of the morning
Before the wakening of the birds
The sound across the clearing
Is the, tap tap, tap tap of water
Dripping down from sodden leaves.

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Comments (1)

Never have I read such a poem! Positively commenting, of course.