Meadows scroll past in an ugly parallax,
blurring in the mid-distance.
He clasps his brow and feels
a rush of something close to rapture.
Cud-munching cows in nearby pasture
have horrible eyes that swivel
in their outsized heads,
but he cannot see them for migraine stars,
colour palette cycling as he presses on.
The stile glows like rare treasure.
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