Her and him.
In the middle of the Grove I stand looking up into the bare branches of tree looking for the birds, which I hear singing. There is a thrush singing at the top of its voice. People walk past, heads down. I feel an oddity, an outsider.
The snow has now melted completely. Only a pile of leaves in the middle of a path recalls its presence a few days ago. The leaves had been caught up in a giant snowball, which during its construction, had gathered leaves and snow at the same time, and had, for a time, looked like an outsize Christmas pudding.
I've been reading the Secret Middle Ages: Discovering the Real Medieval World, by Malcolm Jones. Much earthy symbolism, as one might expect. Then you post this, and I have to snicker.
Being that kind of outsider is OK. It's those in dirty mackintoshes that give outsiderism a bad name
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