Wednesday, 6 November 2013


At the far boundary of his property, he could see the hedge of bronze and crimson leaves.  Daggerwood.  The wood of a hundred thousand arrows from the English longbow.  The woods were full of songs, full of magic, full of history.  But the song that bothered him was the one that came to him on the air, barely distinguishable from the clatter of branches in the wind.  Children's voices all together.  Sometimes high in the leafy summer canopy.  Sometimes just over the hedge amongst the bindweed and nettles.

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