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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2197727
by Zehzeh
Rated: E · Poetry · Contest Entry · #2197727
The joy of hiking.
Not the tallest peak,
But one unvisited,
Clothed in damp mist.

Not a holiday beach,
But a wide expanse,
Of pebbles and seaweed.

Not a raging motorway,
But a sunken village lane,
With skylarks singing.

Not a boating lake,
But a reed-rustling fen,
And a marsh harrier overhead.

Not a tree-lined boulevard,
But an ancient woodland,
Silent standing oak and ash.

My feet carry me,
Between each step
And the next
The endless zen
Of being.

20 lines
© Copyright 2019 Zehzeh (zehzeh at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2197727