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

The House Alison Brackenbury
It was the house of childhood, the house of the dark wood,
four-square and safe, it was the second house
at least, to bear its name. The first was burnt: was charred
foundations, hidden by a timber yard.

I knew this in my dream: the house was same
and solid. All its yews, church trees, were strong
red wood of generations. As we came
out in the dusk sight heaved, house, orchard, gone.
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