Time is here, but not.

The clock moves, but nothing does.

Nothing responds to traces of time trying to change this spot.

Spots of light linger loosely, cling closely, to

Spots of life; floating flies, dancing and darting.

The busiest thing here, silent and new.

Blossom frosts tall trees, yellow-green.

Hedges hold wisps of white,

The willow waves overhead, slowly shifting shadow.

The heat must melt air. Slowing everything down;

Time races on, but life stands still.

No cool breeze lifts the load of this thick air.

Dust rises as cows protest the farmer,

Birds compete, entering their soft song.

Nothing intrudes or interrupts this mix.

Fields of innocence idly exist, playing platform to this scene.

Here, tales of terror taint nothing.

Fear fails to flaw this beauty.

Only blossom falls here, only trees wave in the dust.

The only green is grass, only the sun burns.

When all else seems broken or betrayed,

Forgotten or failed,

shaken or shed:

Then hold to scenes of goodness and innocence; our only defence.


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