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Treading carefully in your shoes,

In your thick knitted socks…

I try to follow the winding way

Of your footfalls.

The snow is melting away,

And your path is hard to trace…

An echo of a whisper once heard.

Am I on the right track?

Your instructions were ever obtuse…

A truth to be discovered,

Never revealed…

And I ache for clarity.

The place where we meet is

Beyond the Ice door,

And no sound is bell clear,

No sound is clear at all.


Dale ‘m’

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