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This poem is taken from Poetry Nation 6 Number 6, 1976.

A September Rising Tom Paulin

I nearly saw them this morning.
There was rust in the beech leaves,
The branches were twisted and nude, grey
In the glistening from a blue that stretched
The subtlest, the finest of frosts.

They were there in that air,
Faintly cheeping, chittering a white
Web in the blue. Changing and staying still.
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