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

East Moors Gillian Clarke
At the end of a bitter April
the cherries flower at last in Penylan.
We notice the white trees and the flash
of sea with two blue islands beyond
the city, where the steelworks used to smoke.

I live in the house I was born in,
am accustomed to the sudden glow
of flame in the night sky, the dark sound
...


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