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On the third anniversary of her mother's deathTo Ruth Latta's previous piece

Country Dance

Play "The Flower of Sweet Straban,"
and they dance for me again --
those couples of long ago.

They step, pause, twirl,
acknowledge each other in grace
to a song which treasures the moment
and honours the past.

Flute and fiddle
echo in green hills
where colts run free.

Violins speak in the voices
of those who are gone,
murmuring approval
from the sidelines
as the young ones float past.

My arms reach out to imagined-you
and here on the basement floor
my feet move in rapture.

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