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First published January 5, 2016

“Some sounds only emphasize silence.”
“We stood more chance of powering the nation with that smile than with his cables and couplings.”
“My patterns please me. I see beauty and order in them, and then when they’re finished I can rest. Not before.”
You could still find whole pieces, branching like little antlers, in the sheltered pools, but for the most part it had turned to sugar-fine grains, and it underlaid the waters close to shore and turned them to Mediterranean turquoise, jewel-like viridian and a purple like the flash of a starling’s wing.
Dat. Cover. Tho.

In summer the hut had sheltered a fringe of yellow poppies, and these were still here too after a fashion. A strange whisper-music was rippling over the turf. I listened, closing my eyes.
The dry brown poppy chambers lend
A temporary larynx to the wind.
Who had written that? I dug through my memories of poems and poets, but nothing came back, and out of habit I pulled a scrap of paper from my ruckie’s front pocket and scribbled the words down. Once I saw them in my own handwriting, it slowly sank in with me that they weren’t a memory at all. They were my words, new ones, forged here on the anvil of the sand