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The wood has awoken. Gone the bare earth and bones of trees. Wild garlic, bluebells. An endless breath of green shimmers, flares, spins, laughs. This youthful fragility squeezes a heart to bursting. The sky has topsy-turvied to meet the woodland floor with patches of bluebells and forget-me-nots, enough to make a pair of sailors breeks. Constellations of white stars sweep beneath the trees to the edges of the burn, their light marking my way.





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