Freewrite III

If each pace was open, a sauntering through tree shadowed, street-lamp lit corridors near home, breaching the familiar damp cement, clean of well kept lawns, sweet of blackberries melting from their vines, emerging on to the arteries branching from the freeway to head west over those hills and down descents and up the heavy-winded inclines again, feeling the night air in its changes, and smelling still the familiar; if I was beyond that and into the rich properties of those summits, and then down again into the humble flats of farmers, through their sweated fields, splitting fence posts in my gate, into the unclaimed between seams of wood and river – through those endless westward miles to grow nearer the coastline, foreshadowed by rot and re-growth of the steady eastward rains, I would then make a bed of the dually blurry sea and shiver happily ’till morning.

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