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Only when I become winter wilderness: enduring marram, (super high tide wrenched-up the unlucky, strewn on muddy sand, soiled hay rotting for shod feet to tramp bordering the long beige foreshore);
when fingers slow become the cold air assailed them for hours, (gloves off fumbling for camera icons, shutter triggers); and inside mind is dusk, geese-squabbling unseen edges, there will be peace.
There will be peace when floors of sunken forests gloom shell-bored, boggling biome (rooty at their edges) into me; and their ten thousand years of swashed and puddled inconsequence - a flake of knapped flint for a makeshift scraper - re-enters the mind after arthropod rummages and long stony silences.
Where I sit to type up this apotheosis of white hiss one more time, Holme-home be gone, civilized florals post-hole memories dream-denizened.
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