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(a poem about Warwickshire)

I forget to remember…

The scent and feel

of Warwickshire leaves

when I depart.


I forget their art.

Their shape

And the colour

Of the blur as they quake.


Discontent leaves made

the earth of home.

Warwickshire’s swirling

is its own.


Every tree has itself grown

In the forests and fields;

Each leaf falls alone

and forms the foundations


On which we thrive and roam.


Photo by Aaron Burdenon Unsplash

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