It’s a
well-trodden route.
Ramblers
love it.
We do too.
It’s open
and fresh – the footpath to the Falls.
We take the
air in.
You can
venture out in any direction (if you wish),
And no wall,
building or road will stop you.
That desire
to run like a child -
Deep into the heather.
No
scrutinising eyes.
Or sacrilege
against assigned roles.
The only
eyes
Are those of the sheep,
Munching the grass.
Every inch
of the body comes alive,
Invigorated by the air.
Skylarks,
whose tunes outdo simplicity,
Stand static
in the sky-air,
But can't be
seen.
They are
watching us,
Just like
the little finches on the walls,
Which follow
the hikers.
The footpath is hard and light.
Particles of stone
(With an ever-so-slight sparkle)
Are kicked
into the air
As we do the Brontë route.
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