Walking West to Field

It’s soft underfoot,
the untrodden spring of the grassy bank
yielding and the air smells
sweet with mingling scents of rain,
grass, hay and earth.
 
The dark is drawing in—blending
all the greys together,
blurring the defining lines
and we’re faceless, blind.
 
But not alone. No sight—
only sounds.
The wind talking, trees sighing, a vixen’s bark
and a miles distant train.
 
A purring car slows to take the bend,
floods us with light,
fleeting greens—too bright, deafening roar
then deeper dark
and the disturbed whispering of roadside grasses.

 
© Ammie-oy 2010
 

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