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This poem is taken from PN Review 36, Volume 10 Number 4, March - April 1984.

Trencrom Peter Scupham
The salt brushed pelt of trees could hide them:
Ogres and witches who play pitch and toss
Or loose an apronful of clumsy pebbles
To stun the landscape into graves and kitchens.
Their lives are long and legendary as bones,
Their sleep deeper and harder than our sleep.

Quieter the gods of estuary and sand,
Holding their smoky fingers to our lips
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