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Well worn path, where each boot has left its mark in the mud.

The weekend rain has gathered 

and pilgrims are faced with slosh or squelch. 



Damp, overcast, not yet dawn. The track that was thought 

to be there is lost in time. Stalled trampers peer

into the undergrowth looking for deviation or diversion. 



A frosty welcome amplifies each distinct blade;

creating crunch under every footstep.

The dark clay remains preformed, unreformable. 


©  Craig Muir 2022

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