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Every day my dog walks me
through drizzle, toil and fear.
Cars like litter, oil spilt streets, broken glass and
tragedy.
Big black bins show family's sins.
I see the faces. I can read them all like maps.
Eyes speak in secrets. Smiles as fake as clowns.
Hearts that seep like fresh cut wounds, but personas hard
as steel.
Children playing at being grown, mimicking our flat lives.
I want to tell them and make them hear.
Childhood's such a short lived gift.
My spirits fade a darker shade, then finally I feel the
cool green soil beneath my feet.
Such a contrast to my grey built street.
My eyes, they lap it in.
Nature's medicine.
My dog released, he now runs free. We are both free to
breath.
No voices or vehicles to be heard out here, just breeze,
tapping trees and bird sweet songs.
I feel the pressure of my life retreat each time I breath.
my lungs are filled with clean, fresh air.
A little world within it's own.
Unspoiled and full of hope.
I see the flowers we call weeds, so pretty in the wild.
I wonder where the creatures hide and if they're watching
me.
The trees they look so strong and wise, they remind of my
Taid.*
If they could speak I love to hear, their words would be
like songs.
My dog, he strides in the forest, taking in every scent.
I know he feels the same.
Then my world comes to an end.
I feel my spirit dull.
So back to playing at being grown.
My freedom time expired.
Ruth Marshall.
Creative Writing Group.
Hamilton
* TAID- (Welsh word for grandfather.) |
