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GULLS, wheeling overhead, 'Light on the crags, The long, hazy day is dead, And noon drags. A sleeper lies on the beach On an arm bent Out of the waters reach Smiling content. A soft wind rustles his hair On the hot sand. Does he dream of a cool home, there, In a strange land? His eyes shine on the green South On a spring day: But the blood trickles from his mouth In Suda Bay. - Gunner "Michael Buckley" AIF |
