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'Something of negligible value'
says the CED, says the wind,
and the wren of your skin
sings through your ghts and hikers
in boots, anoraks, bluff hellos,
grin at us odd sods, walking a cliff
where the hill rises, a spring girl
dressed in emerald grass
hides the clay erodes within.
Farthings, farthings, the wren
in your ghts. Over the hill
the hares run; the thorns thorn;
the wren sings in the ruin.
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