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across the bobbing, tethered rows
of garish, paint-chipped pedalos.
The cafe's closed but still displays
the menus left from summer days,
a tattered flag flutters and frays.
The moss-moist walkways damp grey gleam
makes the sparkling summer seem
like distant dreaming of a dream.
A dream of sunlight and of heat,
of babbling voices, flurried feet,
of games to play, of friends to meet.
The night-time in the morning peace
soon will dissipate and cease ..
already, skeins of mournful geese
swoop and wend across the lake,
their chevron course, unerring, take,
and before long the dawn will break.
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