A neat, quadratic canvas of emerald turf a littler off center, at autumn's eve lies no garden of silver bells gentle English sensibility; rather ancient oak trees, Spanish moss sagging all engineered into perfect, Machiavellian rows. Mary, Mary, quite contrary. written in Forsyth Park, 11 Sep, ~5:37pm.
"over the hills and far away"
The-Bleu-Bivouac 