Walker Walk
S
Sheena Blackhall
0
Altın Yaprak
Winter drives its ploughshare
Into the hearts of graves
In the forest, pine needles layer the earth
With a copper cat-walk
The woodland swallows me whole
In a welcoming way
The trees have their own lush language
Swishings and whooshings
The creak and crackle of branches and dying leaves
And the soft pad-pad of a fox on the russet periphery
Here time is timeless, obeys the clock of the seasons.
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