Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Tristan Moss Warmth's Complexity things are simple again no leaves on the trees, no dog rosé or elderflower to fill the hedges, no high verges to hem me in only the frosty ploughed fields and the sun's cold crisp light share with me your departure Ghost ships She no longer slams doors. Instead, with a nonchalant touch she sets them adrift creaking towards their close. Next Poem
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