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Clatterbridge

It is a place where we are forced
To face our mortality-
That which we feel we possess,
But do not.

Yet only the trees are weeping;
The sky is that of summer,
As are the prints on the wall.

Meditarranean villas,
The shadows like the hands of a clock,
Positioned with precision
And a swish of artistic flare.

They are of bright hot walls
And hills.
Not like the watery sun that
Cascades the gardens here.

They are not hairless!
They are happy
And they smoke a message
Across the treetops to say,
"We defy you.
"The shadows will not move for us."

They will be like the prints
On the waiting room wall.
Static.
Waiting.
Immortal.