Poetry (words)

Barbed-wire & nettles. 

It lays so still, roots drinking in the sunlight. I wonder does it feel, did it ever? The earth sticks to the tendrils as if to give hope. Maybe the rain will come and feed the life that remains here. Dappled light like a filtered dream sends warmth in shards of the purest gold. The real treasure of this land so often ignored in our search for utopia we bypass paradise. The barbed wire and nettles compete, entwined like tiny daggers fighting to the death. I slide my way through this capsular path. The sodden ground seems to fight for ownership of my footprints….my roots. 

The colours are changing. The inevitable onslaught of short days and bitter winds are obvious here in this shedding of pigmentation. It’s as if nature plans ahead that it will give up nothing to the harshness of winter, we gain so much beauty from its selflessness.

Deeper in the fallen rest against their kin, still submerged in the earth until the gales return. 

I sit amongst them and I pull my pen from my bag. To write of how I see the wonderful things nature has given me. From the path of deepest amber to the birdsong that surrounds me, I feel contentment isn’t a fore gone conclusion. Always reaching for the stars just because they’re so distant. Maybe the stars have witnessed what humanity is capable of. I have no intention of stretching that high when the blessings that fill my gaze are as beautiful as any distant galaxy.

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