"'Too late', she said, almost inaudibly, her lower lip trembling as she stood in the middle of the suddenly unlevel playing field, wishing she could remember where the goalposts had been when she kicked the ball."
The sound I mentioned in Post 11 has now been replaced by another, initiated by Post 25: the repeated squeaking of my favourite chair as I rock distractedly back and forward, humming and chewing an oldfashioned clothes-peg.
I thought all published poems were potentially Googlable and, Heaven forgive me, I didn't care.
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