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Day 24. After today there are only six more days, six more poems to write. After that I will be able to sit back and look at them as a body of work and decide which to work on, which deserves to hold its head up and be perhaps re-worked. How is everyone else doing? I haven’t had the chance to really look around the various sites that others are posting on and see how they are getting on. Next month I will go around, start commenting and visiting other sites again. Bliss, no pressure to produce each day.

Sunrise.

In the shadow on the North side
of the house, the cold waits

for the very things you should
know before speaking.

In the mountains  there are no windows
on the North side of the house,

the wind finds any gap to make
an entrance and we need warmth.

We told stories around the fire before
drifting to sleep in small rooms

under the low eaves of the roof.
In the morning the breakfast was after

the wood was brought home and the fire was lit.
We have never gone back. Do I miss it?

We don't tell stories to our children
and they don't collect firewood in the morning.

We don't tell stories, and the house has
windows facing to all the cardinal points.

I  close the curtains to the North in winter,
the children find this strange, they don't

understand the North wind, or the wolf
who follows him into the house.

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