HANNAH ROSE

The crackling of fire.
The sigh of sleeping trees.
The crickets of the briar
Sing songs aloft the breeze.

The smell of mud and dew.
The spice of cedar felled.
A tide of pine and yew
That sails amongst the meld.

The dusky light through leaves.
The swaying fields of hay.
The earth that twists and heaves
Against the blue and grey.

Dear to me, this dreaming,
That tethers me to loam.
A memory of feeling,
This place I know as home.

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