a grey mist of low cloud hovers over the pines slicing themselves every so often on rusted power lines. the weather grey and still, somehow nostalgic, cocoons me. makes me want to dig my roots in deeper. the grass stands tall and straight waiting for the wind. we're spattered, decorated with small crystals of rain for miles as we cut through the hills before they seem to exhale, opening themselves to reveal the vastness of this subdued in colour, but tumultuous sky casting spells of it's own. i want to lie beneath this quilt of patchwork fields, drip feed the yellow and white flowers freckling the green. i wish i was soft spoken, ivy clad and able to converse in their own language, not mine, with the slender birches in their silver skins. im neither soft spoken, nor ivy clad, but speak anyway. and touch and feel and ever deeper in love i fall.
2 comments:
you are certainly using your own language in an extraordinary way. A way that touches your reader in a soft way...
Sometimes you make me cry. I too know that ache of longing and exhilaration, and exile and pleasure x
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