Born under greendown farmer’s scar,
but now amongst the pinched ones -
a child of earth to man-made stone
is walking through the grey.
In cities armour, there we are
pedestrian stiff-coat bones.
Sometimes, no mirth
for what we have become,
or knowledge dare not known,
the emptiness we help to hone.
O’ child of grass-seed skies
when will you help us seek,
to gaze renewed - in curiousity,
in splendour of wonder’s
perfect way?
You are not quite
as I’d imagined -
more … tenacious,
and defined.
Noble boned,
and crafted -
in the cliff-edged
haul of everything.
Steel eyed too,
like a motherbird
on guard - guessing
tomorrow’s wind.
But you too look
weary of being wary.
Let me reassure you;
of the many waves
claiming the shore,
or of the winds
against the plume,
I am only one.
You want something. Faster, more lucid -
real moments that are sharp, not blurred.
The slippage of mortality is rushing you,
like wind to a candleflame at the start
of its final gleam and flicker.