I hate the bland green grass and want to peel it back like astro-turf, find the flat stone, see if my knee would fit.
The Form (Edward Power) One Sunday a hare sprang from its form in the New Road field, ran off with our heartbeats. I put my hand down but even as I touched it the magic thing was turning back to grass. Later, I couldn’t find it. There’ll be others, you said, but it was the only one. Yours I look for now.
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