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This poem is taken from PN Review 156, Volume 30 Number 4, March - April 2004.

Four Poems Sinéad Wilson


Yes, isn't it. I kept it for the piper's face,
it held shortbread once, I think. My wife,
she had her button box and I my relic tin.

That blue pot's a Frinton souvenir,
used as an ashtray so they say.
Whose? Oh, just a man I knew.

These dried morels I found thriving in a shed
near our cottage on the Irish coast.
Those? Oh, just some old plum stones.

Now this betting slip is probably worth a bit.
See, on the back the pencilled scrawl?
That's Brownlee's leaving note. It explains it all.


That night fame took liquid form,
arriving with the second round.

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