Long afterwards in sterile offices,
Where money talks,
And vacant stares of wealthy men
Whose minds I cannot fathom,
It struck me that the heathers were never eaten
By the cattle,
Though they clearly loved the smell,
And that the tadpoles,
Spawning in the drinking trough,
Must have hopped to the lake below
After becoming frogs.
What made them return?
Year after year to a trough high on the hill.
And I longed to smell
The honey from the heather bells.


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