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Spring Dissonance

February 26, 2017



In Doone Valley, it’s spring already –
liquid rush of melted ice. It’s glass in flow,
refracting palest blue – a long time coming.

Showers of golden gorse splash the moor,
clinging to downhill slalom slopes – duck
under wizened oaks. But idyll this is not.

Two horsemen – seemingly benign – crest
the bluff and gaze across. We look where
they look, where their tracer-bullet sweep

pins the bronze prize. And before we can
re-adjust our fellowship on this Exmoor slope,
they thunder on, our peace in shards,

cantering their quarry beyond the next fell
dip. Doone Valley – so it’s fall, not spring, at all.

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