A gentle meander through the lanes. Stumbling upon beauty, like a
treasure hidden in a field that you might give your whole life for.
Birds Foot Trefoil or Bacon and Eggs. Wayside flower of the wanderer.
Star of the sojourner. Matilda loves your bright yellow bib and so do I.
Why do I always smile when I see you merry jester of the hedgerows and
by ways? You are the gentle fool of the fields. Teach me "to be ground",
teach me to "be crumbled" so wildflowers may blossom from the
footprints I leave behind me. Maybe even years after I have passed by.
Fields of green and gold rustling prayer flags of wheat and barley.
Grasses shimmering in the last of the light. Let me learn what holy
abandonment is from your evening vespers.
Secret, small and hidden between the dry stone wall, ancient and
overgrown with ragged tales and poetry. Whisper the words of woodlands
and saints into my ears.
Or remain silent and teach me the greatest lesson of all.
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