Backyard Attention

Strange

There we go.

Wrote it and

Now I know not

What to do,

It could all be

A mishap and a failure,

A turn and a sturn,

A conglomerate mass of mistakes.

Its full extent

Unbeknownst to me.

When we try to capture

What we are we end

Up flailing in agony

As nothing makes sense.

It is indeed

A turn of events

That makes it all

Seem somewhat strange.

'That it isn't the number of steps

That will matter,

But the depth of their impression'

Owen Sheers, The Hill Fort

You

Your blue eyes beckon me as the misty sky

Of some five thousand foot mountain.

A deep and subtle yearning across an

Expanse of the horizon all packed into

Your eyes, your deep blue eyes in which I would

Be happy to be stranded as a man lost to sea.

Your hair lays plaited to one side covering

The pale grooves that are your temples.

A hair soft as the grasses that coax the hills.

It remains locked to your head yet

Moves as you do like strands of silk upon a gown,

Short as the petals of a flower yet more beautiful,

A colour of sweet scented dirt that does open

The floodgates of memories. Sweet docile memories,

A past not forgotten but a future best appreciated.

A face that contained within is all that I yearn. Pale as

The moon that comes up early when

The sun shines, yet stays as it stands alone among

The stars. A face so different and shaped as it were

Upon marble, smooth and eloquent like an

Artists masterstroke brushwork.