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From Llantwit Major to the sea
Two chapels crouch
By a small confectioner
Some ladies at their craft
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Tree bones lichen clothed
Embroidered golden green
Rosehip ageing
Voices of the first lambs
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Impetuous the rill
Last moments unbearable
Prepared for its beloved
Waves ache searching
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Shelved by the second draft
A shore prototype abandoned
For material less precious
And the easier to shape
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Gold silver platinum plates
No magazine sea colours
No flats to fly kites
Run dogs, peddle ices
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Treasured in stone memory
Those fled and left in trust
A spiral husk turned to stare
At faults that were seabed soft
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Blind sun bundled in cloud
On barges lumbering
Gulls in slow volleys
On old smuggler hives
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Coves of gold crumble
On bright stone orbs
On gilt edged flags
Some great game deserted
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A little one in hand, a man
Exploring more for her
Writes her name out loud
In letters big in sand
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One looks from all pools
Vacant but for her
Other things grew feet and wings
Fledging out of bounds
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Then alone that one with One
Has bucked the desolate crowds
For silent union
In these more tangible voids
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Sumangali Morhall
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