14 Dec


There’s a place I’ve dreamt on now a few years that does not exist. There’s a lake and hills roll green down to its shores. In the lake, a boat (of course). And always – from the water, from the land – plenty.

There is passion here but it does not rise so high as to strangle those who feel it surging thru them like water from a great height fallen on rock. It does not cast people down to doom irrevocable.

This is a serene place but never dull; there is too much music for that and laughter.

This is a place for children who always walk lightly in the morning and come home ever day covered in mud bearing new discoveries. They like to touch dragonflies but only with the gentlest care. Wild animals do not fear them.

This is a place for lovers but no vice is cast on anyone. There is no jealousy, no resentment; no-one is a snob. Libraries here nestle in gardens wild and cultivated. In them every book lies open to the others and faces are never as beautiful as minds. There are fields here where the boisterous run and tumble, bruise and bleed: accepting this is the way of the flesh.

This is a place without obedience or commands, without money or want, without vanity or greed. This is no place. The place that never was and never will be but still more real than any supermarket.


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