Sunday, 17 August 2014

A Kind of Prayer

Sitting still in the forest is a kind of prayer. Each tree has a different voice, as the wind stirs its branches, and I listen in, on an endless, age old conversation. It starts to my right with  a deep deep hum, then encircles me, thrum, thrum, all around. Breeze on my face. A woodpigeon calls. Distant cars. 

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