Finding that happy place

Wrung out, spun out,
hung out to dry,
I fling myself to Devon
where the hedgerow’s high.
Don’t look back or up here,
only forward, baby-
stepping to the closest passing place;
go as fast as the least slow.
Healing can’t be hurried so
I’m left to ponder
bumbling bees, buzzing rings
round fuschia
and perching ducks that balance, as must I,
on a tightrope fence
until they find a happy place
between that glimpse of freedom
and the safe embrace that’s found here
way below the maddening crowds.


 14 June 2014



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