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Light on Skye

A white dog meditates
on the pathís hard gravel.
Her brittle bones are grateful
to the sunís warmth, her hair
shimmers, alive with light
and below her, alive
as a breaking wave,
geraniums jostle, streaming
over a green bank.
Their blue-purple petals
are arms flung wide,
ecstatic, shouting faces,
every mouth a trumpet
singing out pure joy.

Edmund Prestwich

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Edmund Prestwich would be pleased to hear them.


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