Written late July of 2018
In the Fallowfield the fireflies dance.
Feather-headed fern grasses tickle knee-socked shins and freckle-faced skins.
Wet dew grass grazes, damp dawn light gazes
as fairy lights flicker fingers of praises.
Wonder-eyed we, hand in hand
awander, wistful children watching.
Jars swing wide, catch them close, lantern-like, lazy lights, lonely flicker foundering.
Close the lid, right to the top- tiny angels burn bright but brief and die in wounded worship.
But lay down long, backs nestled near enough, legs twined tender, tentative touches sighed, eyes on sunless sky-sights far
let the firefly go and it becomes a star.
In the Fallowfield the fireflies dance.
Feather-headed fern grasses tickle knee-socked shins and freckle-faced skins.
Wet dew grass grazes, damp dawn light gazes
as fairy lights flicker fingers of praises.
Wonder-eyed we, hand in hand
awander, wistful children watching.
Jars swing wide, catch them close, lantern-like, lazy lights, lonely flicker foundering.
Close the lid, right to the top- tiny angels burn bright but brief and die in wounded worship.
But lay down long, backs nestled near enough, legs twined tender, tentative touches sighed, eyes on sunless sky-sights far
let the firefly go and it becomes a star.