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Aug 2015
A blue tourmaline sky hung above,
Wispy grass stood steady,
Only swaying, occasionally,
To the song of the bush cricket.

He lay down in the open air,
And traced unseen words across the sky,
Ink forever wet, forever dry,
Unwritten poems, lost to the afternoon.
I may add more to this
Grace
Written by
Grace  24/F/England
(24/F/England)   
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