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February Morning

February Morning The winter light was still to hit the window, and all my other selves were still asleep, when, standing with this child in all our bareness, I found that I was a ruined bridge, or one that stood so long half-built and incomplete; at other times I’d been a swinging gate, a freed skiff – then his head dropped in the groove of my neck, true as a keystone, and I fixed: all stone and good use, two shores with one crossing. The morning broke, I kissed his head, and stood. Niall Campbell Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Noctuary (2019)

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