A dawn chorus, a frisky pheasant skitters across the lawn, an inquisitive deer, a shrubbery, clumps of blue and yellow petals, chopped logs in stacks, an abandoned tree house hangs to the ground, a broken swing creaks, along to the duck egg lady with her honesty box on the gate, on to Park Farm for raw milk from their disinterested black and white cows, pick up homemade sausages, and drive back down the unmade road.
Robin and Sheila’s cottage once belonged to my mother…
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