The Country


Gnats and gad-flies ,the grey ash flow.

Eggs by mortar ,the church above.

Hail their gracious fats - ballads

as even reeds beg an end lightened by the quell of storms.


Kennels befit the brace of  a master ,flesh scarse

stoney wretch of modern whim. North changed her outlook

I as yet a gypsy in mind.

My gaze seperates ,not wanting a coin - but to go onward.


Hills crest each on another. Friendly rounds of tag with banks aged and murky.

Out of the blue,lulling thankful to ever have been

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