I Till The Furrows Poem by poppy miller

I till the furrows of the page
By hand; the thought machine
On overdrive, so till I must,
If I'm to sleep serene.

Today I write of yesterday's stranger
Screened behind low lying boughs
There she lay with ankles crossed
And voiced the air with risen brows.

Quoting Keat's, ‘A Party of Lovers'
She rose and closed her pocket book
Still quoting Keats she slowly idled
Away from that little shady nook.

Intrigued, I followed at a distance.
She had such antics, such mode of dress
Head leaning to one side, she laughed;
Arms flailed the air, now more, now less,

Whilst hanging on to her fedora hat
Her red coat, Dior stamped all over it
And shoes? Well no; they were wellies,
Kicking up leaves and the odd whit of grit.

"Oh to hell with it, " she shouted,
As the wind roused up a frenzy.
The fed came off and her long blond hair
Flew wild, as a woman looked on in envy.

This liberal woman who played with the wind
Who gasped for breath but skipped with delight
Not a care of stares from passers by
Lit up my heart with golden light.

Jan 8th 2016