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September Sunday
By Wesley Williamson

The quiet sky sags from the steeple
And lingers with the lonely people
Lagging into church, their breathing pent
To bells still singing round them;

Earth is newborn today, and innocent,
Old senses are wiped clean
To feelings all original; see,
Edges and shadows are tinged with brown
And down the lane, between the hedges,
Suspended spiders are diamond fringed; hear,
Where the milkman's horse slows up the hill
Each hoof-beat waits to punctuate
The cart-wheel's hooped and hammered prose; feel,
In each tingling finger tip's quick pulse
The instinct of the blood.

I stand alone
Within the glistening walls of mist,
Where distance shrinks to one enchanted arc -
A tarmacadam road that needs repair,
Some yards of muddy lane,
Two grey church walls with seventeen
Abandoned bicycles, and me -
My autumn universe.

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