A poem #26 – Hills of folded cream

Hills of folded cream,
rich red against luscious green;
Summer’s daughter tumbling,
over the cusp of Autumn.

Stoney walls, moss-green,
all the time in the world, it seems;
a singing bird from up on high,
to stoic memoirs of times gone by.

I’ll always love walking there,
until the day that I die.

JP Collins

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