benches with names like
the Corby Strand, people missed
never to re-appear, we laud them,
we wave		and they are gone over
the horizon

all there is; the wind's voice
the gulls, the stretching blue
people walk to and fro on the
path and the fescue waves

builders are building
cars are on the roads
flags wave
and the little town basks
in the sunlight minus one,
two, three, or four

some day we all grieve
for the laugh and smile,
the support, we mourn

'Papa and Nana's bench' 
Corby and the East are twined
and a glorious end-of-summer
day, with the wind in my face
hot sun on my forehead -
some day it will be me

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