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Rachel decided to stop reading and set aside the stack of pink pages which made up the Island Poems. She was intrigued by what she had read and she wanted to read the rest of the poems but she was anxious to see what else the old box might contain.
Fog in the pass
changes the sounds,
softens the cries of gulls.
Winter solstice night.
The city’s main intersection dark and silent.
At the centre of the crossroad
a figure stands, turning in place,
a crossing guard?
Great sandstone woman, lying at the entrance to the pass, guarding the rushing waters below.
Bring on the green powers of spring. . .
You robe your human muse in imagined fabrics, designed from the patterns of lichens and mosses . . .
Rachel continued to stare at the key for a few moments. That morning, when she sat down with the heavy book, which still lay on her lap, it had been her intent to discover what the book held in its pages but the key made her even more curious.