Finding that happy place

fuschiabeeandwatermill
Wrung out, spun out,
hung out to dry,
I fling myself to Devon
where the hedgerow’s high.
Don’t look back or up here,
only forward, baby-
stepping to the closest passing place;
go as fast as the least slow.
Healing can’t be hurried so
I’m left to ponder
bumbling bees, buzzing rings
round fuschia
and perching ducks that balance, as must I,
on a tightrope fence
until they find a happy place
between that glimpse of freedom
and the safe embrace that’s found here
way below the maddening crowds.

 

 14 June 2014

 

 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s