to be young.

to lie between a sky and field,
and twist single blade between fingertips,
leaving smudged green tint on paper skin,
listening to a sound that is music to you.

to watch the words of tale and poem,
roll across your eyes and over your lips,
sink into your mind as they leap off the page
or flow from hand as you flourish the nib.

to trace gentle notes, on strings or keys,
senses absorbed by simple tunes,
acquired from melancholy inspirations
or the odd whimsical tryst ... or two.

to wander through trees and shafts of light
landscape forgotten, hunting with keen eye
in search of mismatched intricacies
to a capture a moment, yours to keep.

to strut down empty commercial scenes
watch spinning wheels through crowded estate
bursting and beaming with bold selfhood
inquisitive faces happily askew.

to be sprawled on familiar threadbare sheets
bask in the centre of your amber dreams
youth balancing on a lopsided smile
as culture embraces, the world at your feet.