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Writer's pictureMark O'Sullivan

Hob Hey Wood: a poem by Jayne Bryson



A wooded glen,

A secret way between the hedges.

Once there, in the gentle embrace of the hollow,

Beneath the soft shelter of the trees,

The living of lives;

The passing of time;

The relentless knowing, and being, and doing,

Were no more.

The Time Warp

We named it,

As we followed the fairy footpaths.

We thought it magic then,

This pause in time.

I know, now, that –

In a way –

It was.


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