Poem – C K Stead

91 Woodstock Road Less timid each day the squirrel comes to our door for her morning conker. I’ve gathered them from                                                 the carpark by the Faculty Library, enough to keep her supplied well into winter. In quick paws she spins it cleaning its shell, then bounds and ripples away to bury it somewhere. I’ve watched her dig one up for relocation in the lee of the wall. Storms have wrecked the neat domain of the man

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