Breathing Space (Poetry)

On the edge of town old hills recline and dream,
keep careful distance, gathering small fields —
each one a living talisman, a shield
against the spread of tarmac, brick and steel.

Up here, the air invigorates, its bite
like well-chilled wine that cleanses a dull tongue,
its tang of pine distinctive, carried on
a breeze to freshen more than pallid skin.

Lungs fill with sheer sensation, nerves awake
to every breath, grow dizzy with the feel
of space and freedom suddenly more real
than far-off streets and houses labelled home.

Paths thread narrow, steep and overgrown,
but now and then the weary spirit’s drawn
to where hills stretch — familiar greens reborn
and brewing air in vats of summer’s blue.