By Maureen Barron

The path starts at the fields
 given over to money making
whooping windmills. They say the blades
kill the flying birds in the dark!
I hope they don't.
Why do I have to worry? It spoils
things. Don't think!
Dog daisies and Hawthorn hedges
glimmering from sun's rays.
On through the meadows
following long trodden pathways,
through childhood memories
feral children playing forever
freedom, no worries.
 Dogs wagging, sniffing
we go on through the stinging nettles
dock leaves, burrs
towards the boggy bit, where
in springtime, the primroses, wild orchids
and rhododendrons paint the landscape.
The ducks and moorhens slide in
and out of the ponds, adding their
quacks and squeaks to the sounds
of skylarks singing overhead.
The sun is warm and pleasant
Almost an eclipse in my eyes.

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