Beams of heat burned through your tights
so the sun blushed your legs. No guard
under your dress, striped navy and white.
You were sat on the hill, like a postcard
of the countryside. That day,
you plucked the stem, the longest one.
Then tossed the flower away,
like Miss Polly’s dolly. Nearly done,
you finished the chain. Pick, tear,
snap them out the grass.
Your hippy-self, wore it in your hair.
“Why not?” Those few weeks were our last.
You left it, dried, brittle, dead.
Remind yourself I’m here - wear it on your head.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Suspended in cold air,
Drawn by wing tips,
swaying trails of white vapour
caught by the wind
stretching out for miles
and diving through clouds.
Ruler- straight lines
are pencilled across pale blue,
running parallel ahead
like blackened train tracks.
Suspended in cold air,
but fastened tightly.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC