Like a swallow in May she felt at home, Yet knew that both her past and future lay Five thousand miles or more away.
Creative Writing, Venue
The Downs
Up above the echoing green, Are the downs where skylarks team, Hills that roll like Yorkshire’s dales, The mills replaced by farmer’s bales. Risen up from the valley floor, Cut by the river, running to the shore, Shining like an untied shoelace, Beholden to the tide’s slow pace. Heather bushes crown the downs, Due-ponds sit…
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