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

Waterfall Gillian Clarke
We parked the car in a dusty village
That sat sideways on a hill over the coal.
We heard a rag and bone man
And a curlew. The sun for the first time
Put a warm hand across our shoulders
And touched our winter faces.

We saw summer, one lapwing to go.
Her mate was in the sky already,
Turning over, black, white-bellied,
While she, looking browner near the ground,
Tidied the winter from her crisp field.

We climbed the mountain, crossed the round
Of it, following the marshland down the gorge.
The water was gathering minutely everywhere
Knowing its place and its time were coming.

Down over the boulders in the death bed
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