The sky above
The summit road is
Is grey and still
Giants hide behind
A shimmering mist
Swirling soft
Across the moor
A single Swallow
Weaves his way
Between the walls
Again and again
Again, again
If mills could spin
a silken thread
From silver mist
He could weave
A quilt of clouds
To bring soft dreams
I will weave one
With my pen.

@matty7w
I wish I had words to express how lovely this is. It feels like a gentle hug.
Thank you.

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