Your south is woven
From summer rushes
Still outside
Its thatch of whether
Blown as skirts
Pleats the light
That binds
Fall opal evenings
Are unbound
In a gentle sweat
Let down
No longer
Shone inside
A bead
A bauble
Or a babe
From summer rushes
Still outside
Its thatch of whether
Blown as skirts
Pleats the light
That binds
Fall opal evenings
Are unbound
In a gentle sweat
Let down
No longer
Shone inside
A bead
A bauble
Or a babe
Tom McGlynn , copyright 2013
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