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The child spirit,hidden under a thousand and one grey City wrappings bursts its bonds.
Valleys,lit with the swaying light of broom blossom,in the distance,grey whares,with a light petticoat frill of a garden,creeping round them on a white road once a procession of patient cattle. A shivering mass of white native blossom,a tree touched with scarlet,a clump of toi–toi,and looking for all the world like a family of little girls drying their hair.