We stood there,
Hand in hand,
In the field of forget-me-nots,
In the summer of 2008.
Your smile wider than the open field,
Filling my heart with reassurance.
The sun in the corner of the sky,
Glimpsing over the edge of the scribbled in white clouds,
Granting us one more day of freedom before we have to leave;
This field of forget-me-nots.
Sat on a bench marked 1952,
The checkered patterned picnic basket lay upon our teal coloured blanket;
Sandwiches placed in tissues to savour this moment.
You smiling at us blowing dandelion puffs,
Filling my heart with reassurance.
The sun in the corner of the page,
Scribbled in grey clouds begin to close in,
Granting us one more hour of freedom before we have to leave;
This field of forget-me-nots.
Bubbles being blown into the summer breeze,
Running and jumping after them,
Following them around the field,
Your smile fading away along with the summer weather;
Filling my heart with uncertainty.
The sun no longer on the page,
Snapped yellow crayon lying in the grass,
No scribbled in white clouds,
Going past the drawn lines,
The page filling with terrifying thunderstorms,
Granting us one final moment of freedom before it disappears,
Forever;
Our field of forget-me-nots.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
