Three Days in the Wild

Three days in the Wild;
No geezers giving me the cocked eye,
Or concrete slabs rising from the pits of hell
To tower above me,
No smile-fronted hidden agendas -
Just the ephemeral embrace of colours and textures,
A blur in the mind’s eye.
A man can find direction in this climate,
But can he follow it home?

Three days in the Wild,
Locked in coitus with crisp air,
A heady lifting sensation from the feet
To the tip of my longest hair.
A bow to the mother who made this –
She who arranged each blade of grass this way,
Chose each tree's purposeful angle;
The lines are stock still at distance,
But ever moving, filling spaces
Given by the wind.