Lewd as linen, the women from the laundry linked arms on the West Bridge. Mothers smoothed the paths of daughters. The river blushed, ran red before the usual sky.
With all the water, it was touch and go for the dining room ceiling, its pale stucco. A local man though knew enough to know boring holes in the floor would let the water go. In his memory there repeats in pale garlands, loops, rococo,...
Let them have been of the commonest, sprigs of heather, ragwort, whins, something of every hole in the hedge, the flowers the last train in bore above her wiper, Bundoran Junction settling for silence, no longer what it was, Leitrim unscrolling, one final time, field...
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