Our
farmhouse gate opens
onto
an old curved road,
Our
village market
has
become lazy,
simply
overgrown as me,
dressing
how I please.
Loquats
linger loquaciously,
scenting
the air,
willowy
branches wavering.
Cocks
drying wings flaring,
glaring
by settling light.
Off
duty cormorants
crowding
our dusky pier.
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