I picture my crossed legs, cresting a mound of ephervesent green, not tumult Sky with shadowed cloud, but cherry kissed blue rolling with heat.
The morning song sweeps the vale, harkening the beast and fresh fauna arouse, and the morthered trees wheaping away glass tears of mid morning shower.
Not a sound of combustion smoke, or thick air laced with chemical cloak.
But licked breath of sun flower fume, and jolly ring of a blue **** call back tracking the day of English country side sun.
Village in the deep pathed with rosened brick, cobbled with years to their name.
Thatched and single glazed sleep the houses of those in pleasure to live, away from sound and smoke and ever reluctance to give.
Yet bestowed from my world I am ****** back through to a bench in embankment side.
My village blown by September breeze and blue *** lost for lacking of trees.
The birds song unsung and arrogantly moved by the slamming tune of metalled wheels. Locals March by with mission and no excess, thoughts of exploration never sound as each space in the city has already been found.
My poet talk resents the city, as country birth implanted my eye and captures my spirit with intrigued motivation.
Yet opposites attract in such manner or Fashion, that crescent streets and busses red, fill my eyes with more movement than words ever said.
And unfinished I want to be here, to inhale the fume and absorb the sound, and so that upon return to my fields of green, my dream of birds and thatched village lay, that not the strongest of mid September breeze, could ever blow away.
