Raegan, Reading

He’d see her reading on the quad,
Sometimes, beneath a tree –
About the Cloths of Heaven, or
The Isle of Innisfree —

And when she spoke, her voice was like
Some distant, magic place,
And somehow, with ancestral ear
He’d catch the smallest trace

Of what it was to know your land.
To know, and, feel a part
Of somewhere that he’d never been
That still was in

His heart

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