A poem by Freya Crouch
The morning dew, dripped onto a small garden leaf,
It ruffles under the pressure,
Until the water slips away and enters the soil,
And it will bloom once more, in another spring
Of the dazing sun after a cold winter’s morning.
The sight of life, alive, and
I almost believe daisies may sprout in my hair,
The lilies take over my eyes and guide me to the rose,
No sight of a hydrangea and that is enough for me.
An early afternoon tea where
Cakes pile up, higher in height until the sky is no more,
But I am not trapped by those who surround me.
The people, they laugh into the air and
They cry with and without me. But now it is the tallest point of
A tower, or a throne where we sit,
With crowns upon our heads
And we feed each other round green grapes,
Until the gold withers and we disperse back home.
The seeping evening that creeps up on me,
With no malice. I let her crawl into my peace
And we lay together sharing a pair of headphones.
Letting the melody rewrite the codes of my existence
Until my actions are muscle memory. Consuming
And deciding the future of my fate If I continue to lie here.
Revising my time and documenting
In boxes of colour that, I categorise by the days,
How i stand now, so she can see me later.
The night, in all her beautiful, gothic glory,
I have no indifference to the darkness that I breathe,
Under the stars, she tucks me in and blows
The lavender into me like oxygen.
The slow unapparent rain cloud of sleep that drifts over my eyes,
I feel warm in the embrace, knowing the storm outside
Shall pass and feed the earth her nutrients
To keep her children growing, maintained
Under the ball of my pen.
