We
rose at dawn to hear nightingales
upon the undercliff. Old Man’s Beard
and brambles tangled the narrow track
and light and shadow played across our skin.
Jonny was gentle with rough hands,
a thatcher like his Dad.
I was fourteen, still dreaming
of a charming prince to wake me
from my rural sleep.
upon the undercliff. Old Man’s Beard
and brambles tangled the narrow track
and light and shadow played across our skin.
Jonny was gentle with rough hands,
a thatcher like his Dad.
I was fourteen, still dreaming
of a charming prince to wake me
from my rural sleep.
© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved
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