Spinning

The days skip past now
that they are no longer
anchored in sour faces and
complaints, in dogsbody
hours with ingrates and
no thanks - I watch the
green trees swaying and
the white clouds passing
over cornflower skies, I
walk on the beach, admire
the waves, I breathe the
free air outdoors of
shackles and chafes.  How
the pleasant hours
skip past gambolling,
the sun comes out goes in
and all the stretching
vistas of the coast and
hills cover all in purple
blue and softest grey
my ills, their games,
their lies.

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