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After the comet

 

the blackberries that year
were few and bitter
quick to wither
spurned by birds

hours we walked
scouring the bushes
for a small harvest
to make midwinter wine

they who drank deepest
sickened soonest
we who were left behind
hacked meagre graves
in frozen ground
choked with bramble-roots

Café Writers Competition 2016 – commended

After the comet felt like a new genre of poetry, sci-fi or post-apocalyptic – chillingly beautiful. – Andrew McMillan

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