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Beachcomber
par
Carol Ann Duffy
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If you think till it hurts you can almost do it without getting off that chair scare yourself within an inch of the heart of the prompt of a word. How old are you now? This is what happens - the child and not in sepia lives, you can see her; comes up the beach alone; bucket and spade. In her bucket, a starfish, seaweed, a dozen alarming crabs caught with string and a mussel. Don't move. Trow. Go to the sound of the sea, don't try to describe it, get it into your head; and then the platinum blaze of the sun as the earth seemed to turn away. Now she is kneeling.
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