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  Ted Slade  (1939 - 2004)
   
     
 
All night the wind screamed out its pain,
shaking the elms in the back field,
rattling the tin roofs of allotment sheds,
iron-clad warriors
crossing the face of the moon.
In the blacked-out house we lay entwined,
safe in our tent of flannel
bed sheets, woollen blankets,
hearing the wild sounds
as from the mountains of Titan,
seeing only the glow
of our own pale eyes,
feeling the touch of warm flesh,
the heat of close bodies,
faintly trembling.
 
In the morning all was still.
We could see to the far horizon,
ships of war riding the grey estuary.
Silently we climbed upon broken elms
strewn about the back field,
remembering the ends of days.



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