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Bushed

January, untrammelled cold,
dusk settling heavily through the boughs,
and cloud piling in like city dirt
in uproar, sweeping away the dust of stars,

and just because this little glint-
beak is deeply, darkly bushed, singing,
doesn’t mean he isn’t flying
anywhere near as fully as me.

Iain Twiddy studied literature at university and lived for several years in northern Japan. His poetry has appeared in The Poetry Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Stand, The London Magazine and elsewhere.

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