New forest.
Copse; a many interim,exalt the faces.
Stallions walk where
the horses run.
And the bayou dances.
Bush-flame odyssey;
remedy of yellow buds.
Purple pasture with a
summit of thankyou.
Skyline blushing,
without fearful ambit.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
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Written on 2011-05-02 at 00:10
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