Monday, 25 March 2013

Midnight


And gentle cadences whistle,
Nestled by solitary trees;
Emerald leaves turn to brown
Whilst I keep walking, just me.

I’ve stripped the flowers
From this bush. All the time
Contemplating, crushing pink segments
Between fingertips.

“Your imagination runs wild”.
Young, they said this to me.
Old, the same panic.

And the gentle cadences whistle,
Nestled by solitary trees;
In bed, it seems, I see
Hands grasped together.

The path is now lit
And sepia seeps through,
Vibrant, blinding. We look,
Stare at each other.
At least we’ll walk together
“Your imagination runs wild”.


by Oli Thompson