Abstract
5 2 Y R O U G H P L A S T E R B E R N A R D O ’ D O N O G H U E We spend our summers in a house once owned By a couple who never spoke a word To each other. And we have wondered if, Mixed in with the rough plaster on the walls, Some bitter trace still lingers. But in their day There was no window on to the southern hills, No singing from the music system, and no-one Calling from upstairs for a weather forecast That will tell us if it’s fine enough for the sea. ...
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