Buttered Fields
Buttered Fields
It is early when she is tickled awake
as light eases under the eaves
to trickle through a sigh of curtains,
to whisper across the bedroom floor,
to nudge and nestle beside her…..and beam!
Outside the sun has buttered the fields,
mellowing, yellowing the crisp, morning dew.
The girl awakes wearing playful eyes, a zestful imagination,
wishing for a form of storm that might offer up jinks and winks
but the morning is in the process of writing its own story.
Capital letters of trees stand tight and tall
beside commas of bushes, question marks of shrubbery,
sprinkled with colourful, exclamation marks of flowers
and, dotted here and there, insected full stops and apostrophes.
Yes, her day is already penned and punctuated.
Soon, she is washed, dressed and toothpasted
and, with a hip and a hop, she springs outside her house.
All around the morning sings, “All things bright and beautiful!”
while Mother Nature has her skipping rope out
and is creating mischievous merrymaking.
The wind begins huffing and puffing all before it
and after juggling a few dustbins it decides to show off,
performing three cartwheels and a backward double-flip
into a one-handed handstand, finishing with a vault without fault
to win the gold medal in the morning’s gymnastics competition.
The girl now watches, waits and wonders what is what?
So with trees staggering and the wind waggling
the morning now dancing merrily in front of her,
and with a giggle of sunlight, an extra wiggle of wind,
she curtsies, partnering the morning in its frolicsome entertainment.
Suddenly and sharply the sun, like stage lighting,
flares through the clouds looking for something lost,
while the road’s yellow lines appear to hold hands
as they stroll side by side into the distance;
the girl follows, excitement shivering her sleeve.
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