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Libby Hart -II

Rosebank Farm 




The wind builds a melody

as nightfall’s sweet, dull thud

comes dancing. Steady is the rain.

All day the grounds

spoke a watery tongue,

ghosts were vanquished in the slush.


Now a single feather falls

from the crack in the ceiling,

a telling sign of what lives inside

this old house of dreams.

Those cave-dark companions

leave me gifts every morning.