Over the meadow
the valley
in shadow
we all come rolling home.
Under the hedgerow
the holly
the halo
back to where we were born.
In the wind’s whisper
the thistledown glister
and over the heather
we all come rolling home.
In daylight
at midnight
with swallows, in long flight
back to where we were born.
Before the new spring tide
beneath the high hillside
and branches spread out wide
we all come rolling home.
Experiments in Fiction 
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