it's called a bridle path but you must walk
for safety's sake along the mountainside
i've never seen a person who would ride
and many a laden donkey that would balk
of going that long road of grass and chalk
look to the left and death is a quick slide
in the warm rain and plenty bush to hide
your worthless carcass and no one to talk
the map is silent on who owns the place
nor does it hymn the brightness of the green
and noisy leaves in the sun's final ray
as all is captured in transcendent grace
eyes do not understand what they have seen
and mind is turning to the coming day
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