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And so, the heavy rains came at last.
Oh well, he had gone about the business
with his usual desperate abandon.
Alone, distracted, monosyllabic.
And her smile set with tinged resignation,
as, in the doorway, she waved away
the cold breath of evening that had rolled in
from the plain's gust of lingering lightshade.
Grey could be such a beautiful colour,
missed in the rush for golden prime spots,
in the flicker between transient days.
His steps receded into sucking mud.
Away - past the old stile and empty field
left fallow with fallen promises.
At least the well will fill now without heat.
And it is about weather, isn't it?

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