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Years have passed and vanished like fog since
we tramped alone through the gray mists of
Glennoch Fell. Miles we wandered then, two of us,
up and down the gentle hills of heather and
bracken, over moor and marsh and fen, hand
joined tightly to hand because it's just
too easy to get separated and lost in this land of
everlasting mist. What a wonder I'm still here
to write this, and you to read it,
what with every day remembering all the hell and heartache
this frightful place wrung us through across the years.
Recall the twisty, stunted apple trees (russets,
weren't they?) bent nearly double from the
day-long wind, and standing on my shoulders
you could just pluck the fruit from the very top
branch. I doubt we should try that nowadays!
Freshmade bannock cakes, scalding tea, and a few of
those hard little apples, what a feast they were,
too many hard times ago. But ah, such times they
sometimes were,and such wondrous children we, and on
those few days of barely sunshine, we ran barefoot
through the oat grass and sang as long and loud as
voice would reach--and you were always better!
But old times turn to new times, and they in turn go
gray. I married one, you another, and we left drear
Glennoch Fell. Children came, grew, and left,
and seldom knew the joys we shared so very long ago.
And our lives passed, wrapped in toil, cloaked in
troubles, sprinkled with odd moments of gladness forever.
And our mournings came, laying to rest those
who'd shared our lives and grayings. Who'd have thought,
dear handholder of my childhood, that bent and gray,
we'd finally share a hearth, one trove
of memories behind us, another before? But who
better than you, dear handholder of my childhood, to
share each moment gone, each moment left,
holding hands along the road
as we return at last to Glennoch Fell?
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