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I hear you calling from Winchester; Your face is distant And your breath is cold. You speak of when The grass was tall And the Kentucky sun Sweet to your eyes. A golden retriever Raced your boots And your scent wrapped The native road. And you understood it all – How far the wind travelled And how it unravelled, The Mountain Saddle you rode. And it didn’t matter, It didn’t matter at all How soiled you were When you and the evening Returned to your home. The bath was always ready And her sleeves Perfectly rolled. In her arms You were eternal And even your soapsuds Rippled into gold. I hear you calling from Winchester.

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