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Writer's pictureDarkling Thrushes

Grey Turnpike


Though the fens exist only in old maps, 

Having been drained to make some barracks, 

I can remember cutting-through on my way, 

Up to Johnston’s house on Grey Turnpike. 

 

We used to travel along a muddy road, 

By a slope of standing pines and a stream, 

Laughing at butterflies in April sun, 

Our boots splashed water by a low bridge. 

 

In the papery, still and silent reeds, 

Crocodiles ventured to sleep.  We turned 

To Grey Turnpike, then a rough, rocky climb, 

Up the opposite slope of whippoorwills. 

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