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by Carol Edwards

Hills with their scrubby plants, combed lopsided by gusty winds,
Odd-shaped clouds drifting above, seeking childlike imagination,
Some hills have winding tracks leading to magnificent views,
trodden paths made by sheep leaving grape-like droppings,
and cows leaving steaming swirls.

Buildings seen far away toss their pollution carelessly into the air,
But here, one can smell countryside,
and place a flag made from a weather-torn Manuka stick.

Copyright © 2007 by Carol Edwards

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