Solitude
Over the wooden gate,
Across the meadow
To the pond,
Surrounded by trees and bushes,
Tallgrass and nettles,
And weeds of all descriptions.
Then, across the bridge,
Made of old tree trunks,
And dead branches,
Leading to the island.
From here we fished.
Hours of peace.
The silence disturbed
Only by a moorhen,
Or fish and line,
Upon the surface of the pond,
Perhaps a swallow,
In the late evening sun,
Flying low across the water,
Catching insects on the wing.
This was a secret place,
Away from the world.
The first glimpse of solitude,
So essential
For the journey to come.
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