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

Plums Gillian Clarke
When their time comes they fall
without wind, without rain.
They seep through the trees' muslin
in a slow fermentation.

Daily the low sun warms them
in a late love that is sweeter
than summer. In bed at night
we hear heartbeat of fruitfall.
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