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Waiting in the still interior:
A bulwalk against sleet grey
You are busy, or idle inferior
While indifferent nature preys

On all that flies, crawls or floats
And the concert of life continues
Against all the pale clear notes
Of an echo of rain that issues

From a rust iron sky, which creaks
And waits to break into something
That pitters or patters finding leaks
On innumerable sheds that ring

In the sound of the season, and
Encrust this island with presence
Of time dripped past in a trusted essence
To live, love, be used, until one day
Becoming dust.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
A seasonal poem believe it or not. Christmas is damp and warm down here, days of drizzle rain and reading, waiting for the silly season.
Editing stage: 


nice to see your poetry again. I was in Taz at x-mas time actually, and there was a lot of fog and drizzle, especially in the interior high spots, but the sun came out.

The idea of "waiting" is a tough subject for a poem, you handle it well, but the final message of the poem is indeed depressing, as the dust image in this context only connects to death. I so wish the last line were as you said in comments, "waiting for the silly season" rather the poetic notion that time in which you live shall just... be dust. It makes the waiting worth something, and "silly" could be an appropriate answer to the brooding of the poem.
Your language and sense of words as always, carefully chosen and tight. Professional level so to speak.

I once saw the biggest double rainbow ever your way, it took up half the sky.
I wish you the best of the year to come, and hope that the same rainbow will pass your way when the dust clears.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

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