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The colour of the fields of my home,
the colour of a four-leafed clover,
the colour of the clothes of a leprechaun,
the colour today on St. Patrick’s Day of the Chicago River,
the colour of luck,
the colour of nature,
the colour of the monster in someone’s envious look,
the colour of the screen text of a 1980’s computer,
the colour of the leaves of Summer trees,
the colour of the city in the Wizard of Oz,
the colour of an Apple martini,
the colour of some beer bottles,
the colour we think about when we think of a frog,
the colour of a Hairstreak butterfly,
the background colour of the sign
and the colour of the aprons that they wear at Starbucks,
the colour of ivy that climbs,
the colour of an emerald,
the colour of the aurora Australis,
the colour of choice for so many people today,
the one and only, the serene, green.

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The smell of freshly-mowed, dew-speckled, fragrant grass-
the colour of the rolling hillsides of the English countryside,
the colour you would only find elsewhere in Eden-
transports me to a field in Austria,
where the air is clear and open and stretches for miles,
and in the distance the horizon is filled by the imposing sight
of the snow-tipped Untersberg mountain.

The feeling of raindrops falling on my head, running down my face-
the taste of natures tears on my lips,
in my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat-
relocates me to Brazil,
to the base of a thousand year-old tree at the heart of the Amazon Rainforest,
in-awe of all the sounds of life that I am hearing all-around:
the smells, the colours- all resonating singularly and harmoniously
to a single beautiful note.

The sight of a rainbow arching across the sky,
the sight of every colour imaginable reflected in fresh puddles on the ground,
and in the gaze of wide-eyed on-lookers-
takes me over oceans and kilometres
to the town of Bluff on the South Island of New Zealand,
to witness the breath-taking spectacle that is the aurora australis-
silently dancing before me, and leaving me frozen in wonder.

The sound of Bumblebees buzzing in the sunlight,
going from one garden to the next-
evolves in my mind to become
the sound of a hummingbirds wings beating without rest;
and at the same time that I am in my garden in England,
I am also in the hot Sonoran Desert in Mexico-
equally entranced by the sound, so much so that I am lost for hours.
And in the time that I am lost,
I find within me and around me all that is delicate, beautiful, alive,
and to be found all-year-round in natures showers,
and especially in the petals of April Flowers.

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