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The Rainbow

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The weaver  frowned,

as she surveyed the grey and faded land,

a fox cub shivered in the cold,

a single magpie drifts across the crisp and languid air,

and summer pledges lie in shallow graves upon the earth.

She pulled the fabric, tight across the frame,

Her gentle hands caressed the still, diminished scene,

of crushed and fallen leaves,

earth moist with tears of Autumn rain,

she pondered in those shortening of days,

what promises she could bring.

Resolved, she held her richest threads,

the purest she could bring,

with finger tips, and needle point as sharp as sunlight rays,

she twists, and pulls and sows,

then formed across the bleak and empty sky,

a vibrant burnished arc of colour light and gold.

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