I am not really here, simply a figment of an over active imagination that sees things in scales of grey and hues of blood red.
When herons roost in tree tops the wingspans of angels lay still against the heat of the sun. Dancers move to a silent music heard upon a spring breeze that lifts rain across open fields.
And as you imagine all these things I slip towards long shadows cast by deep woods, walk back from where I came and leave words humming on your lips.
Copyright: Samantha Ledger 2012
Friday 6 April 2012
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