May 2019
the hawthorn lays down its ghosts, thick
with dulling pink; the stream quivers,
its blue shadows sunken, gleaming,
at low ebb, breathing like a mirror
in the sun. beneath the trees it
is dream-like, cool, dark and
magical, the leaves little harbours
of breeze, voiceless, white as bone.
with dulling pink; the stream quivers,
its blue shadows sunken, gleaming,
at low ebb, breathing like a mirror
in the sun. beneath the trees it
is dream-like, cool, dark and
magical, the leaves little harbours
of breeze, voiceless, white as bone.
unfortunately i do not have enough spare hours in the day to respond to all the likes etc. if i do not respond it is because of difficulties fitting this all into my life it is not because i dislike you. i hope you understand. :))
