Childhood
his mom holds his hands as they pass
through the wood - cold, mysterious and dark,
like a blob of ink is melting
the shadow lingers over the shade of canopy
and despite their bright clothing
the oak spreads its wriggling branches and twigs
its roots grab firmly into the earth, her collarbone
crossing the path, he is eager to reach the other side
his school-friends, his father’s workplace,
and an open air market
he firmly grasps his mom’s hand
they walk like two lonely ballerinas
sunlight exposed at one end of arch of trees
until he becomes a lone walker
Beautifully vivid. :)
ReplyDeleteThanks, Jeffree Skewes.
ReplyDelete