© By Jean Bleakney

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Sunday 16th August 1998

It’s been the wettest summer here in years.
As suntans fade away and tourists leave,
we count the sun among the disappeared.

The seaside towns are stacked with souvenirs
that won’t sell now. And still we can’t believe
how bad it’s been, the worst we’ve had in years

—no notion of a ‘good day’ perseveres.
We give the nod to autumn for reprieve
and count our hopes among the disappeared.

In rain that is commensurate with tears
another generation learns to grieve.
On this, the hardest summer here in years,
we count the maimed. We name the disappeared.

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