An Ode to Dorset

You. You are something simple, simple and clear. Yet untraceable.

You’re familiar, indistinct and overlooked. Yet unique.



You. Your green is richer than theirs, your value more rooted.

You. Your gentle speech is more powerful than theirs, less intrusive, more…intuitive.



You. Hold the fleet-footed bounds, the gentle glides, the young leaps of innocence, the cries of the night, the crack of heat, the crunch of ice. You hold these in esteem, in your garden, you keep these.



Now, you. You who watch the rise and fall of the sun, you who watch the native bound, watch that which is unaware of your foreign eyes, your machines, your success and failure, your light and dark…all that mere noise – a mixtape of worry, love, and pain. It cares not.


You who rail and rage, spit your fury and ambition, your reckless scream for more and faster, more and better – your demands are heard, answered. Listen, now.


Listen, now – to the bubble of the cool water over and through the green valleys. Listen, to the crescendo of the chorus, the rise and fall of sweet sounding song, borne on the wind. Listen, to the crunch of the ground underfoot.


See, now. See the white-haired hills of winter, glinting and glowing under the gentle sun. See the rows of trees, older than you and I, monuments of endurance.


Do not overlook these, these calls and pleas – quiet though they may be.



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