AWAY-WITH-MAY
Springs to mind May.
"Hawthorn?" you ask, you say.
A girl, not the hawthorn's-flower.
My memory ushers in summer.
HURT-RIVERS-IN-YOUR-VEINS
You didn't read the signposts,
you didn't take note.
The highway to his heart
became a lowly route.
Became a lowly route
the highway to his heart.
You missed the bridge, Miss,
over the River Hurt.
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