Weekly Poetry: An Autobiography of Countryside Walks.

Trekking along the path, avoiding
nettles, thistles and spots of wet grass,
a Father looks back. A daughter caught
in a square inch forest of long grass,
a stray branch whipping away the green towers.

A walk that was taken every week.
Saturday mornings in the presence
of the river, the fields, the sky.
Those days were precious.
Where trees and birds
were more important
than growing up.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s