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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


It is a mood.
It is November.
Summer speeding away,
winter with its blue eyes,
its white sweepings,
not yet arrived,
not yet caroling.
It is
dock and ship,
entering and leaving,
the front of a window
and the shadow behind.
Sitting and wondering.
Sitting in a chair
in the darkness of a room,
and something passing through me.
Like a restless love,
like the hush before a symphony,
like the night
kissing dawn into wakefulness.

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