English Village

It was a beautiful spring morning.
Nothing I know of can be more harmonious
then an English village.
Sycamore trees dripped morning dew like honey
and rose bushes sparkled as ruby.
On an open field, a lone horse came to the fence
I stroked its flank and spoke softly.
It was morning moist and exuded a delightful aroma.
On the other side of the turf, another barrier opened
and a flock of sheep came out.
The horse trotted over I was forgotten.
Continued eastward towards the sun and memories.