To The Earth We Shall Return
- Grace Davies - poetry
- Aug 7, 2020
- 1 min read
Updated: Aug 12, 2020
The dried leaf
hangs clinging
to the thin fingers,
pointed and extended.
The dried petals fall
from the roses pink and white,
hanging on a rope,
a pendulum of beauty,
swinging.
One must twist, turn, duck,
grabbed around the waist,
laughter at thoughts of being hit.
The rose explodes on impact
and we are covered,
suffocated.
It's easy to lie and bathe
in the water
now perfumed.
The subtle scent remains.
We are marked,
scented territory,
from the cocked hind leg,
sprayed to smell of spring.
Spring rain,
hair sticking to face,
lying in the long grass,
poppies surrounding,
bluebells in the distance,
the roses in the air,
still suspended.
A leaking roof
allowing soaking,
we are oiled.
Streams materialise and run through our bodies,
down our bodies,
the lake forms where we lie,
entwined by the floating rivers
we are nourished by the water.
Thorns join the rain
pelting the floor.
Oblivious,
lips glide over the forehead,
camouflaged.
Watercolour runs,
we blend into the grass
into the earth,
and return,
to from whence we came.
We return,
to mud.
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