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They
say she wore Lily-of-the valley
In her bridal bouquet,
And that love grows in
the Spring;
But who forecast the
thunder of July
When angry words crossed
the dining table
Like salvoes over a
no-man's land?
She "withdrew"
and he "escaped
To an Autumn of discontent.
Each wanted to say "Sorry",
But youthful pride
prevented it.
And so two sick elms
Stand distant, apart,
Naked in a moonlight landscape
Unloved and cold ...
And now it is Winter.
Copyright © 2001 P. Tierney
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