A short poem I thought up as I strolled down the road near my home.
Chiseldon Camp: July: 10pm
No sounds.
Nothing, but the whispering wind
And the crunch of my footsteps
And my quiet breath.
Occasionally, the rattle of a stone
As it is kicked across the worn road.
Far-away hills.
Like an oil painting.
Hazy.
Untouchable.
Unique.
Golden fields.
Now a dull brass in the grey light,
Stretching for miles across unspoilt country.
A barn,
Alone.
Silent houses.
Dark but for one light in an upstairs bedroom.
Bright television screens
Glowing in darkened rooms,
Their watchers sitting silently
In the gloom.
Empty cars.
No movement. Cold.
Devoid of life,
If not for the small mementoes left behind.
Teddy bears, dangling dice.
Long roads,
Sheltered by tall trees.
Half in shadow.
A cat crosses. Black,
Its eyes bright in the darkness.
No-one.
Nothing.
Silent.
Alone.
(Feel Free to comment)
Chiseldon Camp: July: 10pm
No sounds.
Nothing, but the whispering wind
And the crunch of my footsteps
And my quiet breath.
Occasionally, the rattle of a stone
As it is kicked across the worn road.
Far-away hills.
Like an oil painting.
Hazy.
Untouchable.
Unique.
Golden fields.
Now a dull brass in the grey light,
Stretching for miles across unspoilt country.
A barn,
Alone.
Silent houses.
Dark but for one light in an upstairs bedroom.
Bright television screens
Glowing in darkened rooms,
Their watchers sitting silently
In the gloom.
Empty cars.
No movement. Cold.
Devoid of life,
If not for the small mementoes left behind.
Teddy bears, dangling dice.
Long roads,
Sheltered by tall trees.
Half in shadow.
A cat crosses. Black,
Its eyes bright in the darkness.
No-one.
Nothing.
Silent.
Alone.
(Feel Free to comment)
