A Conversation

 

A blade of grass stuck is beneath my shoe,
As though nature herself condemns its rubber sole.
I carry on,
Through grass that reaches high above my knees
And sprinkles flowers down within.
“It isn’t possible to see the sky.”
I shout at the stream as I jump the stones across.
“It is only the reflection of the sea.”
I mutter at the bank of myrtle and young saplings
That have loomed before my path.
I push them aside,
Snap their young and unsupported necks;
Fill with glee as sap and mud cover my hands,
Like cookie dough mixed in my childhood years.
I lick my hand,
From wrist to tip of finger,
Feel this odd concoction of ground
And slaughtered plant upon my tongue.
“It tastes like death.”
I say to no-one, turning back towards the stream.
“Abandon your quest, return to what you know”
It whispers as it trickles down a well worn path.
I heed its age-old warning;
Return to what I know,
But since, have learnt to hate.

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© Fionyac