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The Watch
by Susan Fealy
    for Edward Thomas

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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