Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Tea And Sandwiches Comments

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It's wet underfoot with no paths running through the heather;
I passed a dead sheep on the peak of this moor overlooking the valley
Where the Calder flows beneath the frail cover of winter trees;
Up here, the roar of the wind fills my ears, the cold slaps my face.
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Togara Muzanenhamo
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