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“The Buddleia.”
Come evening, it’s almost too late
to walk in the garden, and try once again, to retire the masculine God of my youth by evoking instead the divine in the lupines, or foxgloves, or self- seeded buddleia, whose heavy horns flush as they open to flower, and draw these bumbling, well-meaning bees which remind me again, of my father . . . whom, Christ, I’ve forgotten to call. Kathleen Jamie
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