The Style

The old gate sits atop the field
Surveying the mountain beneath it
Well really it's not a gate
And really it's not a mountain
But we called it that 
In our childhood days
So big it seemed
To our tiny eyes
And we would run and run
Til our legs gave out 
Or our lungs were aching
Playing games of imagination 
In the gardens of our minds

Now it is nigh on twenty years later
And we still live here
Here in the house on the hill 
With the landscape spread out like a dream below
And you are still close
Closer than close to me
You all are 
Here in our little family

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