Mar 26, 2025
I have loved you: this quiet stretch of hills, these hedgerows, heavy with silence, this sky that weeps soft ribbons of gray.
But love cannot hold when the wheel turns, and the cart must leave the lane. The stone walls, lichen-kissed and crooked, know this well—they whisper so to the restless wind.
Still, my heart stumbles. Will the oaks bend lower, seeking my absent touch?
The fields stretch out as though in prayer, their golden stubble catching the last light.
I leave behind my silence, my shape in the long grass, my ache in the air.
Somewhere beyond this, a place waits for my arrival. But here—oh, here!— I will always be someone who never left.
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