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While aeroplanes plough the sky and the sun brushes out their tracks, we trudge beneath the calls of birds like wooden soldiers, our painted coats shining, our laced-up feet slamming hard on gum splattered slabs and puddled roads.
This is not the morning but the flimsy jigsaw of just awake.
That was not the night but what was left of yesterday
caught on our tongues like snowflakes.
© Jenny Adamthwaite
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