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What are you thinking of

as I pass my fingers

through your mane’s coarse wool?

I take your cheek into my palm,

you root my coat for food,

shiver a little. It is cold here,

in the bare fields, under blank cloud.

You wander between the stark wire

bending to eat, running now

and then. I would do the same

removed from home and company,

taking the warmth of a stranger’s hands

light and hesitant, like the rain.


Cliff Ashcroft


Peninsula Poets

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