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  • After Rage
  • Kerry Hardie

It was only when I had carried the seedlings out into the cold day, when I had sat myself down in the damp grass and pricked out hollyhocks, poppies, lavender, pinks— the young plants, the fibrous trail of their webby roots— firming them into their new places; only then did I quiet enough for the great winds to die down in the white-thorns of my being, for the magpies to leave off their rattling in the grace of silver birch.



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