… was stepping through long grass and clover,
failing to keep my socks dry,
till the rapid curve of the hill,
where I tossed each biscuit
on its short and tumbling arc
while late sun graced daisies and seed heads
in moments when cloud veils lifted,
and the house on its perch on the hill
exuded welcome.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 17, 2022