white flecked with brown the spray of grit
ground rising with the snow
where summer went in spray and arch of flower clothed
i go walking into winter
branch and bow below
the fields fall along the roadside
down and banking to the woods where trees
are inked against the swell
i remember flutters in the sky pale-winged or common blue
splashed the tinge of leaves
the flint inlaid under the skin
the flesh will melt to bone
yet church bells turn me on the hill and call and call and call
i am come to colour and the water welled of stone
this is no flash of inkling, but a soul
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