The Mag provided the above map as a prompt.
Every contour line
That shows the way
That the land lies.
It is not that way,
Not at all. Not even remotely.
The land is not an inked outline,
Not a flat, numbered grid
Of creased and yellowing paper.
The land lives, the land grows.
And decays. The cycles of lives
Lives lived and loved on the fields
And meadows of a rich, warm country.
There are birds, and small inquisitive mammals,
And colourful, multi-legged insects
And streams and fish and furtive rodents
Scurrying from tuft to tuft,
And fruits and berries
And shady glens beneath the trees.
These are things not caught by the cartographers
Nor sought by the lovers
On the rug on the grass.
© J Cosmo Newbery 2013
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