Five times I’d been sought after, down that way
within the small crossings in the sun-silver grass
made by the scutter of traced new animal forages;
road-lines for rodents to step along. Escaped I did
to the edge of the field, where I knew the brook
meandered along astride roots so timbered melodic.
And there I found a red headed flower, so vivid
in its purity of colour. To feel that this was unique
was the only real emotion as it bowed in the wind
before the spirals left to pattern the stream’s pool.
So, it was a song made through the whistling roots,
lain barely together for the first show of noon.
I cannot say for how long I remained in that place
for the memory blurs with the passing, yet this I know.
Time left a shadow over the grass as I lay upon my back
did the moon enter; a chord between bespoken petals.
With another native speech seeding, the light softened
signing a fine monochrome print to the day’s glow.