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In Gillingham Park,

nothing is really wrong.

There is a slow dance of sycamore leaves

in burnt orange

and falling greens.

Even the dog has no reason

to be hangdog today.

There is space :

a lungful of air

that could be gasped as happiness.

But my boots are stuck in mud.

On self destruct,

I choose that sad,

stupidly sadder-than-sad,

Ed Sheeran song to play.

...then put his hand on my cheek

and wiped a tear from the side of my face..

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