In hazel twilight,
an avalanche of white thorn
hanging above our heads.
Night lights of bluebells
thick around our feet;
faint silvery gleam of lake
between the trunks of trees;
birdsong all around.
Ancient walls
of moss-softened stones,
traces of a lifestyle that once was;
hand-built scripts
disappearing in evening's light,
time's amnesia,
nature's shroud.
Cryptic, disconnected
from their meanings;
too remote from their builders
for poignancy;
we stop a moment,
admire a bend on the pathway,
white-petalled, luminous.
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