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Ian Pople, from Saving Spaces


Winter is a sacrament:
the bumble bee has hidden among the splinters,
the crow, up there in the long forest, shakes off the rain,
the pig stands in its fleece of steam,
the pipistrelle nudges deeper into the tree cleft;

and He has looked in on it, and confidently stated,
'That is my deposit',
the heart with its old-fashioned indigo.