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Sunday 28 August 2011

Nomads

;

The swallows are sitting on the line;
Their purpose here nearly over.
A pulse, a scent, something calling.
Tiny scraps empowered;
To ride the wind southwards.

I hear their twittering restlessness.
Primordial longing;
Connecting me to the same fever.

What is it we seek with journeying?
Heed the calling to the source:
Or be fearful and die.

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