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a poem from quite a few years ago, inspired by the sight of an aged driver advancing carefully along a motorway, a long, irate tailback in his wake Witchman Witchman, wrapped around leather, staring through glass, blasted eyes, bloodshot translucent skin. Fingers like knots of gristle and rock, stuck in time, modernity raging at his

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Hilary He felt the spade bite under his boot and promptly applied extra weight to get greater depth out of his effort. He withdrew and entered again at right angles. Thrust, push, bite, deepen, withdraw. And again at the other end. Flip the sod. Move along the line. Repeat the process. The metronome clicked in

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