poetry critical

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Beneath the door step,
leaves, crisped brown,
surviving winter  months,
give up their search for mulch,
settle then swirl endlessly round.
Frost that etched window panes
unlikely to return.
Finger trace,discoloured glass.
distant shimmer begins its slow burn
Summer still half asleep.
A faint glimmer starts to fill,
as it creeps towards mid April

6 Apr 16

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