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Melancholy weighs in his throat.

Sun is blazing as the summer refuses to die

like his memories.

In a graveyard haunted by ghosts of the past, the reunion goes on without him. His choice, why can’t he look at photographs.

He wrote about voices just a year after the fact. Now it’s 17 years, what voices can he hear today and what do they say.

Why is he in this autumnal drift.

Standing on the edge looking at a murder

of crows pecking the ploughed fields of purpose. Ripping out the flesh within the seed.

Photography and words by John de Gruyther Copyright 2016 

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