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Prayer
Here in the north country
My blood flows quietly.
The rain is gentle today,
Little more than mist.
I load wood in the barrow,
The air soft for March,
No smells, no sounds.
My poplars lean in the south wind.
Suddenly the scent of brine,
Mussels, sea urchins, snails;
Of strong wine, bitter olives.
The ice melts on my memory,
Of you, father, in the wet loam.
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