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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Sunday, 15 March 2009


by Suzan Abrams

She stayed innocuous in her belief of fantasy
But deluded no-one.
Why, just this morning, the snow
fell with a vengeance as she hung out laundry.
It defied a March sun and chalked her shoulder,
With shouts of boo while the fallen sky crept
behind, a skirt tug for a scared child.
Humming its winged melody, a stolen composition
The whistling wand of an abandoned swan
and the noisy sea of ghostly windmills, she
was suddenly taken to fancies, picturing the
can-can swing of gossamer threads,
destined to shroud the drone of pegs.

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