song of a sunday

The countryside flies by

In a constancy of rush

Trees, rivers and blushing brush

Golden fields of sun dried rye

Gulls like paper planes in the sky

Thistles and rocky hills in the distance

Catch sight of a grazing flock per chance

Under a watchful canine eye

The ocean to the left – mossy stone to the right

Breathe it all in – become the escaped kite.

 

 

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