Soft lines of pure history worn;

all hard edges smoothed,

forgiven by the passing of time.

All judgements, victories and shame

covered in the reclamation of emerald green;

the triumphant essence of a beauty

lost and won over centuries,

long after man’s selfish ambition has died.

My blood shivers green,

recognising the gentle climbs

that echo my soul’s inclination.

It may be the illusion of smudged horizons,

and the not-so-distant shore

that soothes me;

or the gentle autumnal changes

that don’t hurry me;

the deep reliable evergreens

that cradle my natural reserve.

Is it merely the appreciation of a place

my eye has never seen?

Or the recognition of something

my heart has always known?

And the promise of the poetic gentleness

of an English summer….

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