Sunday, October 16, 2005


Bracken yellowing in the purple heather,
Too crisp for want of rain.

Crickets whirring like well oiled machines and blackberry scent on the air.

Time stolen to lie in the forest of fern fronds, beneath the underbelly of the breeze to ask nothing
Nor to need a reply.

Only to hold tight and close to life's beauty and mystery
And be strangely moved.

(c) A McN


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