John Scully

(19th October 1947 / London)

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Mole

Till meadows weep with pollen drops,
And flowers turn to fruit
The ghosts of winter glimmer still
Among the frosty village frocks.
And when the brown thrush comes with throaty song,
Touching barren hedgerows with his wing,
The west-wind hovers or'e my door
And wakes me with a roar.
Till then and only then

[Hata Bildir]