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The blue-grey hills


Revisiting Kinder Scout

I can sail over seas of blue-grey hills,
while the rhythm plays in my car;
I can rise to the roof of the satin sky,
where the pale-gold memories are;
but the bone-old hills are now older still,
as old as the long-gone power
that struck for the straight with an urgent pace
in a surging youthful hour.
No hill is a home for the lonely heart,
unless it has made its way
to the top of the rise with its breath and brawn,
in the grace of a fated day.


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