A little while ago
I wrote a poem about chestnuts(*)
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* horse-chestnuts — a fact I was reminded of again,
as rain carried away the last petals.
And that moment where the poem was born,
where there were real chestnuts,
was carried away the same.
But strangely enough this ceased to worry me,
as my gaze was drawn to a no-name hedge,
a generic shrub, third-party bush lining the courtyard,
covered in tiny blonde blossoms overnight.
