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Sunset Lament ©

Fife, Scotland

Never a prophet in our own village
The streets once played on are unkind
Should the muse visit and insist on being heard

So sad that a village cannot claim its own
And dance to the tune first heard
Along with the tackets on the boots in its streets

The wealth contained within the novel
Where Chris meets Ewan and the Mearns mourn
Beside the standing stones …enrich our nation

Enraged at bones laid bare
The good folk's tongues clattered
As he knew they would

What price to be paid
To capture the rapture of the ages
And spell out for eternity a love story

No one is a prophet in their own village
But the muse must be obeyed
At whatever cost

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