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Freshly Cut Grass
So much passes unnoticed,
fails to attract an eye or an ear,
excite the senses enough
to interrupt the mind's endless
chatter conducted within
the windowless walls of itself.
Too often, a walk is no more
than an exercise in navigation,
vague passage through
a dreamlike world of shapes
floating the outer regions
of what really matters,
your own thoughts.
Time thickens a spun
cocoon. The day in all
its glory remains out there,
sunlight golden on the trees,
the smell of freshly cut grass,
birdsong filtering
through autumn leaves -
more distant now
from the tightening enclave
you slowly weave.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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