by Debs Brown
The sun soaks into misty grey.
Strands clutch at his legs as he walks;
Solitary but not alone. Imagine him praying,
as the peace overwhelms him, talking
to God and his dog, both faithfully pressed to his side.
The light streams glorious and
Soft masses outlined in white take shape.
The grass dewy laden, the land
sensual in its rolling hills, the nape
of a neck, an hourglass figure lying in tears.
Shafts fall on rusty earth and highlight
Varying shades shot with piercing green.
Freely, the lone crow eats, takes flight –
Gently startled by the rythmic feet,
Landscape lonely save that one.
No bark can break the sweet and lingering calm,
The peace that saturates his skin,
Papery soft but soaking in the balm
That sun and quietude now bring.
Sharp oranges in trees caught by the glow
Stand out amidst the murky browns.
Leaves detach. Acorns, as if thrown, echo
His crispy tread of rustling autumn ground.
Debs Brown believes herself to be the mistress of creativity; residing in Sussex, she thrives on trees, chocolate and board games.
The Pygmy Giant 