A gap in the hedge
where briars are looping downward
under the weight of grape-like clusters
of fat juicy blackberries ‒
squelching cattle-trodden paths
lead onward to fresh, green, larder-like
half-acres of lush shining grass ‒
choked with cloud
and birdsong sweet with plenty,
among stirrings in the leaf-litter,
momentary alarms;
I step, sinking in wellingtons
in the dung-gummed earth,
into a triangular field
green as the previous,
as secluded within its sycamore,
blackthorn and elder confines.
I stop as I would passing into a new room
and know I can walk the whole country,
east to west, field to field, across this mosaic
with its opulence and endless allure.
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