At Seaforth Station The leaning quince branches wattled the white sky While underfoot the deep brown mud, well daubed from dung, Latticed with the shadows, enriched the air With smells of earth wood and water. Here long ago we would pick quinces by the hundred Stepping into this cool damp solemnity from the glare outside: A place where the thicket arched high in gothic grandeur. To step outside again was to find a stage set —White tree trunks and their branches Gummed onto a blue green backdrop. A line of old poplars approached it in perspective. Stop at…
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