Robert Perry

June 1

Dew-droplets on grassy ground, satin spun on fallen leaves,
Stillness echoes all around, air touches it, and as it weaves
Its quiet way, a lone bird sings, a lost voice rising, disavowed
Endeavouring to find her wings, and set upon another cloud,
While down below, the only stirring things,
The air beneath her, and pure white rabbits

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