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Beauty Spot.

 What springs to mind is a far-off digging sound, the likes of
which you'd hear out west, as if slabs of wetness are being cut, as
a slean is driven through wild peonies, cotton -grass, and flowering
swathes of bull rushes. Come dusk, turf pyramids scatter a dying sun
across lesser-known layers, where bog oak is sought after. It was our
Cerberus drives home the fact wee young Emily Rose Aldershot had in fact
been shot. Three bullets she took to the heart his nose found, our
curious little cocker spaniel, not far below butterworth and sundew, in
her embroidery anglicise holy communion frock. Heather and blood-orange
asphodels sway as her white ribbon surrenders to inevitable dusk. 
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Title Annotation:Special Issue: Ireland
Author:Fitzgerald, Anne
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Dec 22, 2011
Previous Article:Moving On.
Next Article:Storm over Manhattan.

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