Reeking Reality

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Nantlle Ridge, Snowdonia

Eyes closed, shuttered and empty,
Wrung of feeling and cleanly wired, my cup is drained and
Stained by lip marks.

The lawn a perfect postage stamp, an old phone
Rings in the hallway, light beams through the letterbox
And parts the dusty air dark and light.

Exhausted I wait for emotion, for a connection to act
And acting I am.
Finally the heavy door creaks open, my outer landscape
Retreats to another room, reeking of deeper reality
And boiled sweets.

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