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This poem is taken from PN Review 112, Volume 23 Number 2, November - December 1996.

Two Poems Peter Bland

Wintering - Putney 1996

They browse in cold clusters, geese and swans
mouthing through fog
for what the tide brings in. Lean
pickings in winter with the tourists gone
and even the locals, walking wet dogs,
not stopping to throw them crusts. I've
stood here twenty years on and off
wondering whether to call it 'home'
because I sense that this river-mist
has soaked into more than thin skin. There's
a late love too for midnight walks
along frosty towpaths under cold white moons
with foxes barking by the garbage bins
and barn owls wintering in the tourist boats.

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