Ian Emberson Poems

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I was picking blackberries when I thought of the strange girl at the mental hospital.
Beautiful she was – quietly beautiful. Yes – and apparently nothing the matter with
her – except that she was scared to go outside, and scared to go indoors. And so she just sat there in a chair by the entrance door – she was there when I went in with the

library trolley : she was there when I came out. But that was thirty years ago. Odd

that I should have thought of her just then.

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