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in Vikings' footsteps.

in these streets of no joy

the quiet has disembarked

and fled

 

osculatory cousins

reap what they sow

in the bus shelter

 

as the village bike

looks on disdainfully

blowing pink bubbles

 

shaking hands and

chattering babies’ teeth

the icy winds of pleasantries blow

 

winning the land

from the sea

of muddy salt flats

 

a tractor crawls

beneath the grey winter sun.