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There’s a clear glass vase
on a windowsill in my kitchen,
belled like a trombone,
no more than twelve inches high,
but in that vase,
filled with emerald
and white translucent
glass pebbles,
I see the world.

In one, I see the clouds
scurrying along, above the
skylight in the roof.

In another, the golden glow
of the midday sun;
in another, the television
reflecting world events.

In another, a distorted depiction
of an old man sitting in a chair,
writing in a Waterstones notebook

Myriad worlds;

Condensed, captured
in a twelve inch vase
on a windowsill,
in a kitchen,
in a small apartment,
in a green and pleasant corner
of England;

My world.

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