Longshaw Hall
Remnants of snow
A withered red rose was lying on the ground next to a stone seat. I'd love to know the story behind it. Maybe it was an object of unrequited love - carelessly cast aside by a scornful lover. Maybe it was a memorial to someone gone but not forgotten. I'm going with the memorial I think.
Unseen subterranian terrorists litter the grass with periscopes as blind as themselves.
Walk on by water-flow by crow-flight. By night, by star, by satellite. By map, by stone. And so to home.
There were half a dozen trees, the bases of their trunks kept warm with mounds of conifer cuttings, and piles of logs. Simon thought it might be to provide some habitat for the wildlife during the winter. I don't know.
Heather Thraves loved to walk here. She was born the same year I was, but lived a shorter life. I hope it was a good one filled with all good things.
The stone and the wood.
No comments:
Post a Comment