I want to be around those souls,
Who have wild flowers growing in their rib cage,
And trees under their skin.
And letting them scatter at night.
Consistent in its changing.
Teaching us to get lost in this moment.
I’m not broken,
I’m just out of alinenment.
And if I look closely,
I can still see the wild inside me.
Let’s sit amongst the leaves,
And tell each other stories.
In the margins.
And I wonder if you’ll read them.
The cog has ticked over into Autumn,
And the fields,
Are filled with pheasants,
As they rush around in huddles,
Like privates on manoeuvres.
And I do wonder if they are training,
For some great pheasant coup.
The day of balance.
Before we tip forward again;
Nature reminding us to move on,
And I’ll drink to that.