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A Sanctuary

still, yet ever moving

By E.B. MahoneyPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 1 min read
2

The scent of fresh clothes.

Damp earth, tang of rain

through open windows.

Storms, cold over sapphire hilltops,

usher the fresh grass.

Golden light that floods

through ash tree leaves.

Wattle, yellow upon the ridges,

marks the passage of spring.

Where the cold burns

in windswept paddocks,

but welcoming upon return

to bright kitchen and

fire warmth, a sanctuary,

from the bleak world outside

where the grass turns silver and brown.

That sweet, earth smell of sweat,

and clover, and fluffy winter coat

against my dusty face.

The sky, a dome of lilac and fire,

as the woolshed's grey iron

presses into my back, the first stars show,

and the air clings gently cool

to my jeans and muddy jacket.

Where the world sits differently,

to anywhere else on earth.

It is still, yet ever moving.

Where there is a strange,

unconditional beauty in all

its cold, punishing aridity.

And hope in it's light,

inevitable return of warmth.

nature poetry
2

About the Creator

E.B. Mahoney

Aspiring author, artist, and sleep deprived student. Based in Australia, E.B. Mahoney enjoys climbing trees, playing a real-world version of a fictional sport, and writing in the scant spare time she has left.

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Pax tecum Tom Bradbury

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