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This poem is taken from PN Review 210, Volume 39 Number 4, March - April 2013.

A Kensington Vespers Grey Gowrie

There are no words
in the afterlife;
a sound reason
to have nothing to do with it.

But if, when we die,
we re-join our dead
mothers and fathers,
and old forebear Darwin,

how full of noises
will the island be: how lively
the songs, arguments, shrieking;

thunder, sea chewing loud
on its own margin,
high wind or Zephyr's
benign one a background

music for young women
laughing at a picnic in sunshine
or the pop of a cork,

gurgle of Fleurie

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