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The moon brings its ancient prestige
to the small, remote rubbish-tip,
now closed-off, that looks down on the valley,
where the lights of a few villages are twinkling.
When we used to come at night
to throw away our rubbish,
we’d stop and gaze at the firmament.
Under the moon, the old rubbish-tip
is today covered in fennel and thyme:
there is the rustle of creatures crossing the undergrowth,
owls dazzled by the headlamps of cars.
But it no longer has the power it had
when we’d stand here and gaze,
surrounded by rubbish, at the stars.

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