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james mcgonigal
Poet  •  Critic

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       The Lost Glen

One of these years
        
he might miss not only her birthday
                but the date she died. Waking at five

to slap barefoot through the half-dark
        and contemplate mist easing up the glen
                to brush fleece and cattle rumps, the ponies

grey-bearded now, stiff-legged
        as he peered out for their shadows grazing
                She came back to me last night

                in the deep blue dress with hair adrift
        across one shoulder as she always used to
like to wear it with that dress. First light

falling across the dream. Outside
        burn waters tsked and bustled
                sweeping word after word away.
               

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