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Wednesday 21 March 2012


Caught within the bowl of the pond,
Cradled in the branches of an elm,
A swollen, golden moon.

Narcissus-like, I reach –

The water ripples,
Reflections shiver, melt, are gone.

So, sometimes, in the soft evening light,
My mirror yields a glimpse:
A girl, before life’s chances, choices,
Painted her firm.

© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved

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