Grass unshaken

Like the rising of the sun or the changing of the tide, unoriginally, he draws his first breath.
Trees overhang his stream of consciousness,
Old farm buildings and the homes of the working-class Frenchman poke out from above the leafy banks.
Whilst islands of lilies bask in the brilliance of the mid-day light,
He journeys on, his strokes swift and monotonous.

Events make more than just ripples on the stream of his life; a strong longing for what is already lost as in Virginia Woolf’s
The Waves crash against his side, but he floats on – undeterred.
Chaque jour il n’est jamais seul, mais il est parfoir solitaire,
The wind is light; the bank is still but for the solemn passer-by,
An engraved St Christopher pendant on a thin silver chain can be seen running through his slender fingers

Dragonflies flit to and fro around his head, like mere acquaintances at a party,
Time will whisper to him, help him with his realization of the longing for the one with the beautiful colour, the truest flight.
His surroundings have a resounding affect on him, though there is anticipation for the unknown,
Peaceful thoughts.
The stream finally narrows as his drooping eyelids lead his body in the parade of sleep.


Adam Thomas