From door to door it moves,
Over the hills through the undergrowth,
Into the farms by the stream,
Overlooking fields with feeding lambs.
Brimming to the lid with peace,
Always tidy yet never swept,
Very narrow yet so long,
Endless but never tiring.
Even under a weeping sky,
Village footpath is best to ply,
For no dungeons of portholes exists,
Or devilish little ponds to soil your feet.
©uchenna
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