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Border It crumbles where the land forgets its name and I'm foreign in my own country. Fallow, pasture, ploughland ripped from the hill beside a broken farm. The world's exactness slips from children's tongues. Saints fade in the parishes. Fields blur between the scar of hedgerow and new road. History forgets itself. At the garage they're polite. 'Sorry love, no Welsh.' At the shop I am slapped by her hard 'What!' They came for the beauty but could not hear it speak. from Gillian Clarke Collected Poems, Carcanet, 1997
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