Crisp, Crunch, Crack
The morning air swarmed my nostrils like bees to their silk and oh so smooth honey,
I smile as I think back to when we used to push each other on the big black tyre swings,
Or race on the frozen crystal canal and when you slipped, I stifled a giggle for it was truly funny.
Birds would chirp down at us in our little secret hideout - my parents shed - where you climbed atop the green dusty roof and proclaimed, 'I am King.'
Various memories of us flooded my mind, exultant and lingering.
My bright crimson wellies padded softly against the crumpled frail leaves,
The harsh gust of winter had arrived and as soon as you came you had disappeared,
I panicked and dwelt in my own sorrow thinking I had lost you to the darkness for that was the only thing I feared.
Oh sweet lover of mine, you spoke kindly to me, touched me in ways that made me shiver with delight, whispered things we could only dare to dream, by then I was intoxicated with you, that I was too blind to see that you never really cared.
You played my heart like a musician expertly playing their violin, the bow weaving slowly and subtly at first, the notes soft and fragile - a sweet rhapsody and then building into a crescendo, where the music transformed into something more deep, sinister and chaotic.
Thoughts of anger twirled inside me, my eyes didn't want to believe and something in the depth of my spirit stirred.
After that I saw the world in only black and white,
I no longer had the will to live, to love, to fight.
Suddenly, this bright ray shone and I began to see the colours of the rainbow,
A radiant orange sphere emerged from behind the grey nimbus clouds and told me not in words, to look for the silver lining.
And here I am, with my red woolly scarf and gloves, my eyes glow with excitement and I skip happily to the rhythm of my heart down the frozen crystal canal, alone but in love with life.
YOU ARE READING
My Poetry Collection
Poetry'And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.' ~ William Shakespeare