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written by: Michael Shea



The breeze stirs the wild lawn like an unseen comb,
whisked to and fro in an undulation of deep sea less dance.
Buffeted flat by a hearty gust and left aloft as it leaves to roam.
The trees whisper conspiratorially of its impending return,
leaf and twig, branch and bow cursed by this devil’s roam.
Up hill and dale, down glen and vale the gravity thwarts escape to no avail,
and the land does emanate a mournful moan.
The man behind the horse and plough lifts his weary sweated brow,
and lets the wind bathe his face with soothing balm.
He squints at sky so azure vast, and back at chore not yet finished now,
takes rein in hand and leans once more winced at his blistered palm.
Off the bluff and over sea the dance continues east,
the wind is fitting up to squall quelled not by man nor beast.
Creaking timbers and taught tight canvas brought to bear,
leans into starboard bow.
Past this vessel and on to land this beast does onward plough.
Tied to nowhere, free to roam and vanish without trace; this beast,
this living thing the lungs of this great place.

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