Honey haired child,
Braids woven tightly by nimble fingers in the sun of
morning,
Amongst the dew caressed tall grasses of my childhood.
Small red berries in the yellow-eyed field,
Their kisses stain red.
Thick layers of your voice,
Shattering the windows of my authenticity,
Like a wide winding ribbon of colour,
To encapsulate me,
To fill me with promise.
I am searching.
Brilliant, pleading, glistening eyes,
Strangers meeting slightly intoxicated,
Slightly blind.
We collide running through the vastness of this
technicolour dreamscape.
Where did time go?
My heart-temple is submerged in a
pool of light and sails an empty ancient ship,
negotiating angry waves in the distant seas of your
smile.
Not returning until next sunrise with
The weaving song of nimble fingers.