A silver patch, for a silver coin
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| When summer is still a moment in waiting |
rubs to enter a word of
may be memories that never fade
every breath a memory made
a room filled.
Here laburnum in golden yellow
a necklace on Delhi’s dust storm
And there the mist falls,
settling on the glass
as the signs come true
the vestiges of hands held
dreams drawn
as the trees swayed behind hail stones.
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| When spring is summer's bosom friend |
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