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The Watch
by Susan Fealy
for Edward Thomas
1878-1917
It was morning, Spring.
Perhaps a bird sang.
The bombs came early
fecund with waiting;
Easter Sunday had lapsed.
The calm eye of his watch
is locked on 7:36 and 12 seconds.
The poet will never know.
He was just a man
who stood to light his pipe
and so retrieve the world.
Memory dies when the heart stops.
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