A
remote corner of a
field, away
from the traffic of feet
or
wheels; where
blackthorn, elder and
briar have
twisted
in
old age into
a tunnel
sheltering a stand of
primroses in
March,
bluebells in May,
foxgloves in July. A
spring, an
unplumbable
brown eye gazing
out of
the earth, a stream
taking
its clear water to the fields.
A
place where beauty does
not demand awe nor
wrench the
soul
from your body, but
finds its place within your soul.
A
place you remember though have never been; that will
return
to you at unexpected moments like memories of home.
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