Ramble

The hills behind us form

a big green bolster.

Aunt says the lanes will be bursting

with berries, so we should walk.

I don’t think we’ve ever taken

a country ramble. It would never have

flickered through Father’s sordid mind.

I think Mother was allergic to nature.

A mythical realm maybe just

beyond the next ridge.

The sun is out. We ford

a little stream, intoxicated

on fresh air. Our limbs are

delightfully achy.

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