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Season of
shifting greys
Punctuated
by thin rain and
Bright thorn
berries, not destined now
For the
mouths of men.
Season of
first fires,
Of damp
wood,
Of gathering
in,
Of cold
feet made warm.
Season for
the dead:
For the
marking of those soon to leave,
For the
visiting of those gone before.
We raise
our glasses and pour strong drink for them.
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