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(h4yMa)
An April Sunday Brings
underneath the cellophane
Five loads - a hundred
An April Sunday
brings the snow
pounds or more
Making the blossom
on the plum trees
remains your final summer
More than
green - Not white
An hour or two
enough for all
and it will go
Strange that
The Snow by Philip Larkin
sweet - And meaningless
next summer's teas
I spend
that hour
Which now you
moving between
Cupboard and cupboard
and not to come again
will not sit and eat
shifting the store
Of jam you made
Behind the glass
of fruit from
these same trees