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All Change

Revolution seems an inappropriate term to use
in winter, when silence and stillness lie for miles.
Days dawdle, half-awake. They lounge around
in pyjamas and don't do their hair;
only nights seem formally attired
in spangled finery; the moon, a flat piece of silver
to grace a little black dress, or a gambler's coin
tossed through the dark.
Life's business goes on underground or inside,
unseen by most, yet all unfolds unnoticed,
revolving and rotating towards that time
when day will emerge - sun's first blush,
clean as a daisy, fresh as a whistle
for no reason at all but life's pattern,
and then we dance our summer revolutions
careless and carefree, out of doors.


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