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Is a phenomenological place
And in these scrub trees
Overarching the path
The church of a graceful holding
Reaches arms around me;
An old oak fence post, black and green
And leant with age
Which once held back and in place
A fence, and a hedge now loosed into wild trees, stands
As an altar of welcome anchorage,
Constraining nothing now but to say
Here we are, and yes,
This is the way.
Keep to my left,
And there is the next field.