In the field just across the way

there’s a place not far off or so they say,

where the moon does skew the dark

and the breeze is riddled in low remark,

children dance beneath the waves

dreaming over sunny days,

the clouds a prance in funny faces

and movement stirs from other places;

so here it is the grand of grandeur.

She enters in and lights the way

the fairy giggle and flutter in play,

a gutted bleat sings from the pan

digging his hoof at where he stand,

and again the wee hours of the morn

move through the veil now tarried and worn,

shining through to another day

showing new memories for the same old way.



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