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Seven coloured cranes turn
In a breeze of blown sunlight;
When the breeze becomes wind
The patterns of their dance collapse
Into a chaos of entanglements
Impossible to read.
But this does not last, and soon
The cranes regain their perfect distance
And proceed upon their way,
First climbing, then descending,
Yet never getting anywhere.
‘There’s a metaphor in that somewhere,’ I venture,
‘Something about the way love works, or doesn’t.’
But when I turn around, you’ve left the room
And filed for a divorce.
