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The lady at the well

The lady at the well has carried this water for decades. She lives north and the fields and hills roll on to meet the sky. Her land is divided by dry stain; it is where she belongs.

'I was born here and I shall die here. The scarf I wear is my mothers and the water I drink from the well is my life. I know who I am, and this is my home'.

Beyond the wall to the west there lies a forest called Woodhall Dean, the land is covered with Oak and Hawthorn. Trunks with rich sleeves of green; old, grey, crooked. The lady has held the forest close. She walks and they stand still. She listens and they tell tales about; the wind, the moon, the stars. Oaks have welcomed her arms and her lean. She sits and sips her water from the well, gently breathing. The air is fresh, she is happy.

she sees a wren; tiny, brown. She smiles and she thinks of her younger self, back when she was too busy to listen. The trees know her stories, they have joined her laughs and carried her sorrows.

She closes her eyes, leans and turns to face the sun; sheds a tear, it falls.

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