SAILING ALONG
We might have gone sailing along,
me in my jersey hat and you singing
that same old song : Fifteen scattershot
miles from nothing at all and sounding
like a lark in a broken treetop.
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At the antiques stand all you were after
were cups and saucers, cups and saucers,
and cups and saucers again. Old things,
mostly chipped or faded or stained. 'How
like us,' I think I exclaimed. A shudder
or a laugh, something from you came.
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There was a line of trees along the ridge,
and the old guy I was talking with while
you were shopping saucers said his
great-grandad had planted them all,
many years before. I can't remember
what year he mentioned, 1904?
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Then we both remarked, thinking almost,
alike - he and I - how it was strange that
they all grew to different sizes like that, if
planted all the same. He said something
about the wind from the west, or maybe
the north, I forget, and how it pressures
the trees to grow its way, no matter, and
how the underground streams right there
also bend the surface and influence the
ground beneath.
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It all made sense, in a sneaky sort of way.
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