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The collected stones of a house
its damp dry-stone walls holding
onto the mountainside, shining
where the sun touches. Green
in the gaps and cracks, slates
scattered, abandoned.

A single room open to the sky
white frost in old corners.
Empty folds, sheep aren’t
called here any more.
Falling stones, a farm
slipping under grass.
A view for strangers.

Second draft. Comments, ideas, all welcome. Let me know what you think.

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