Sickly branches spread out from the bodies of comatose trees,
And her feet fall on leaves that have died,
Paper-thin corpses at one with the ground frost,
With each step she feels that she might,
Fall through the earth and plummet for years,
Leaving Welsh winters behind,

Crystalline grass blades stand neatly under silver pink skies,
She follows where the gravelled path snakes,
Her concer...

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