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This poem is taken from PN Review 131, Volume 26 Number 3, January - February 2000.

Three Poems Alan Dixon

Levels at Sidmouth

We laugh watching the drake that zips
By the flashing barrier of the ford
And over the weir waterfall
With two flaps at the splashing,
And, I say, no quacking at all,
And one of the green white and brown
Composite wine-bottle kind
We think was a mallard's hybrid hatchling
- No acquisition fresh to
The British list or menu -
Which, round seven-thirty each evening,
Waits at a bus stop.

But how could you, young self
- Without being abashed
By the herring gull on one leg laughing
...


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