With formalised structure
Or randomly placed
Their roundabout; of path
Or journey, or coast to coast
Narrative, is of footsteps fallen
Lonesome steps, in the dry heat
Of summer; looking out to sea
From a haven of meadow grass
Lonesome steps, in the cold frosts
Of winter, piercing into the distant
Fields, where nature is taken to turn
To be the chosen one, or silently unspoken
Or the mildly flamboyant, and once more awoken
Onto whose hopes we might rest
Smile at their compilation, pass on
Some sense of their richness, and colour
For the days whose heads they may countenance
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