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This poem is taken from PN Review 98, Volume 20 Number 6, July - August 1994.

Hundred River Neil Powell

We came to Hundred River through a slow October,
  when earth is scented with everybody's past;
when late scabbed blackberries harden into devil's scars,
  untasted apples rot to bitter toffee.

Across reed-beds a track of blackened railway-sleepers,
   a plank-bridge lapped by barely-stirring water;
Swans gargling silently in their fine indifference;
   above, a sky of urgent discursive geese.
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