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Whitsuntide
The fullest flow of life
Even when the clouds are low
The sky is bright
With whitest light
Over a fallen cloud
of fading Bluebells
Golden fields
Buttecup-full are
Edged in lace
My senses filled
The delicate, delicious
Incipience of spring
All we have waited for
Is erupting
Rowan, hawthorn
and apple-blossom blush
A flush of lilac clover
The time of our lives
is here and now

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