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The Muezzin Mutt
Nothing is alive Not even the still air Frost lies Like images of breath Cold upon the field She wakes and whines It is morning Time for the muezzin To hail the dawn In neighbour's yards She is a slow, sad sound Broken only By the dreams of the lonely Only the refrain Makes friends of an echo The tip of a sycamore Bends as if some Fractured vane Or rusted peacock tail Had petrified in peace She tries to crown clouds With each bay leaf The sky is flat today The sun breaks like a yolk On the mutt's snout © David Incoll 2001 |
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Copyright by David Incoll 2001 |