English Village

English Village It was a beautiful spring morning. Nothing I know of can be more harmonious then an English village. Sycamore trees dripped morning dew like honey and rose bushes sparkled as ruby. On an open field, a lone horse came to the fence I stroked its flank and spoke softly. It was morning moist and exuded a delightful aroma. On the other side of the turf, another barrier opened and a flock of sheep came out. The horse trotted over I was forgotten. Continued eastward towards the sun and memories.