Treasure Island

Christopher Withers


fragmenting in natures abstraction


grass scent fills my mind
weaves visions and associations:
summers past
fathers hand
red stone shed
penny, old - worn out dog, hobbling towards me,
for hug's and love.
laying down, resting my head against
the soft turf, feeling breeze across my face,
whispering grass against my skin, in my hair,
birdsong joins, the blue sky,
spiders crawl, the silent sound
of nature growing, becoming, all around,
grass winds itself into my hair, claiming
back earths stake, as falling over into
myself, away from waking rationality: my head
splits open, fills with dirt and soil,
loving caress,
expanding outwards, as dew
forms on my eyes and skin, sun, holds
behind the clouds, and everything becomes blue.
growing down, into the soil, entwined in roots
of childhood memories, structures which, support
my adult self - and down into the darkness
beyond the moment, beyond the possible,
to the place where memories die.

Submitted: Thursday, November 16, 2006
Edited: Saturday, November 20, 2010
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