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Poem	The curlew and the heron call, the hissing mud and whispering wings beat eery through the idle air until the moonlit midnight silence falls and then the tide flows softly through the gut and sluice of estuary sands and dark against the dreamlit sky the trees arise from hedgerows, and the hills alive with monstrous shapes are menacing with soundless fear, and still below the blundering man, the beery and uncertain head, the stubbled fields hold secrets now and silence fills the river bed.
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