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Buttercups and Cow Parsley
Billowing golden
and frothed like a green bay
At sunset,
Beyond a storm-wracked day
There's a peace in this breeze
Though the broad green leaves
Have been ripped from the branches
Of sycamore trees
The Curlew calls
Wild, not free
Protecting her treasures
Like a shepherdess
Counting her blessings.

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