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The Saturday poem: At Peckham Rye

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by Clare Pollard

Lately, I see through a narrow chink in a stairgate.
I see doors and think: can I get my pram through that?
In the park, I dole out small snacks –
ricecake, popped grapes, elven cheeses.

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would be infinite
but I have closed us up in stacky cups,
a nursery and naptimes;
in a rhyme for snug.

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