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Saturday, November 23, 2013

Cnoc Song

hers is the stone like a cnoc
   mountain rills are crawling crystal
      down the valley at night
      toward my box and my oaken floor

who carries what the box
   cries like windfall
      that blows through
      the shadow of my flukes  

who is lost but
   finds winter heretofore
      in the sharp flank
      of the still cold north

while the sea rages by ice
   my dear and froth that freezes
      on breaming waves
      and salt in a felt slipper

who climbs the rock face
   for your health and welfare
      in the oaken valley
      of the old flipper

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