My humorous head is
married to a frustrating memory,
and much like any odd couple
quarrel over the silliest of treacheries.
But if I remember as so,
there was a neatly trimmed graveyard
where only old women would bother to go,
decorate the tombs –
with white, blue and Golden balloons.
The song of Summer trees –
savoured in flowery cobwebs
and polite little fleas,
over looking war heroes who were
you and I when the Earth took them in.
I saw a burnt down barn
simmering through its rusty skeleton,
where a boy escaped chores
and lay, in lazy hay, beside restless young boars.
And his children,
and their children, tangled with lovers in the attic –
navigating through the wonders of static whisperings.
There goes the soul of secrecy,
and the seemingly timeless murmurings of naïve indescretions by the crickets.
I felt dock leaves and stinging nettles,
wind blown hair and scratchy skin;
a world far too great to fit the one within.
So I sit at the nook of a tree
as a final blanket of sun lights with the breeze,
and the stars begin their travels with fruitful ascent.
Church bells knoll and pastor lights fade from the sky.
And as fulfilling a day as this could have been,
I seem unprepared to bid England goodbye.