There’s a place, 

                        a special place to which she goes. 

                 To be alone, at one  with all around her. 

                   A place where breeze caresses trees, 

                                    who whisper in return;  

                                         gently creaking, 




The first time she went to the lake it was like paradise. Hiding 

             at  the end of a lane, beyond a crooked gate, 

easily missed from the road. It was  summer, it was warm 

              and the long, damp grass smelled inviting. 

The grass grew  frantically in perfect disarray, 

                                                          the hair of a wild deity.

                                        Free, roguish.

Trees bathed in warm light. 

Bouncing, sparkling on the water, a  thousand bright stars 

                    dancing across the ripples. 

       Mesmerising in their  impermanence.

                                She always loved the sparkles on the water. 

          Sitting,  cross-legged, on the wooden jetty

she would watch their unrehearsed ballet in awe. 


                  A small clearing, a fallen tree, a seat amongst the ferns. 

Sunlight  warms her aching soul. 

                    Easing, soothing. 

                                       Eyes closed; birdsong. 

          The cold ache of  pain slowly fades. 

                                               Memories begin to haze.

It’s going. 

         Not sure when, but going it is, she knows that. 

Sold for  development? 

                       Sold for parties to shoot? The birds. 

Their colours: bright reds  and blues and greens. 

                                    It’s unknown, the future, but certain.

She waits.

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