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The Minehead road
Weather-bound to the house
my books call me to the warm fireside.
I dream at my steamed window pane
as Autumn, chill fingered,
strokes the last colour from reluctant leaves.
Sea fog rolls low over the bank
to hide sere grassed hills,
still the quiet-voiced birds,
and dull the distant business
of traffic on the Minehead road.
Somerset 1997
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