While you wait, here's a piece of prose-poetry I wrote yesterday.
A dozen different still-wet grasses arch across the snaking path; the meadow vetch-and-ranunculus-run - yellow blooms below a thunderous, plumbeous sky.
The stone-stepped style hips the field's angle where the wild rose rises through the ash, spying the valley beyond.
Amongst the scramble of the pinkish petals young Lesser Whitethroats beg, white-chinned, dark headed, impatient.
House Martins squeeze between trees' tops and cloud as thunder thumps and the slopes jump and judder under its buckle.
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