Image result for small walled field

            A SCOTTISH FIELD

     That ancient little field
    Has always been there,
    With its grass cropped short,
    Its stone walls dusty
    In the morning sun.

   Each time we come this way,
   We say that one day
   We will sit in the middle of that field.
   Pluck tiny blades of grass
   And wind them round our fingers.

   But this is a dream
   That seems never to come true.
   Yet, even whilst we’re swooping past
   In a cloud of elegiac dust,
   Still we hold on to it.

                                  © Gwen Grant

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