Prompted by a memory, from a long time ago
The wind, or the morning
Sometimes,
Without quite knowing why
My eyes fill with tears
When walking to the station.
It could be the early morning
Or the incisive westerly wind.
But if I had known you would be
Away for the whole summer,
I would have tightened my scarf
And tried to look as though
It was the wind,
Or the morning.
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