Forest Stones | Paul Tristram

Beyond the ivy-clung forest stones her hermit’s hearth does glow with the scent of wild herbs and other hedgerow matter. ‘Tis bottling night again, the ladle is overemployed, with the rhythm of eye measurements, dipping and diving with the flow. Simmering time’s for ladder knotting, whittling worms out of the soul. Busy yet still slipping …

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