It is rather odd,
Walking through a French field with you,
Hands locked, grass swaying.
The air is hot but light,
Hanging off you like strands of silk spun
No later than yesterday was done,
We stroll the field.
If we pass a farm,
We may walk through, me and you,
Hands locked, how they'll be staying.
The air is laced with the smell of cheese and wine,
Sticking to you like strands of a spider's web,
The sun lowering into the grass, a colour red,
We stroll the field.
A beach now,
Walking together on sand dunes,
Hands locked, ocean spraying.
The air is salty and crisp,
Dancing through you like it will,
Colder at the top of the sandhill,
We stroll the beach.
All fields have contour lines
And beaches ups and downs,
The cheese could be rotten,
The wine could be brown.
My point is,
Why search for the level?
Why look for the flat?
The time could be on double speed,
The cheese mostly fat.
Don't look to the past,
Or the possible view,
Who said good things can't last?
Let me walk with you.
YOU ARE READING
First Steps #WATTYS2016
PoetryMy first collection of original poetry, designed to represent what I have done and seen in life so far. I'll be uploading to YouTube whenever I can, I'm creating backing soundtracks for each poem (and building funds for a microphone). If you enjoy...
