"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
The air out here is sweet,
Like popcorn and burnt sugar it is a saccharine mouthful.
I gasp because I have not run these hills in a while,
My legs are aching and my lungs feel stretched
But it is a relief.
This effort is not like the jungle from where I have come.
These fields are too green, the mud is too brown – the dirt is too clean.
There are no polka dot patterns on the pavements, a mark of someone else’s mouth.
Nor are there butts flicked nervously at the floor – a little rebellion of some small fat cat corporate machine.
Here there are only tail feathers of pheasants alongside bleats of cold sheep.
Huddled in their candyfloss blankets with little liquorice legs.
The crowds here are only made of trees – a silent and mellow.
No sea of black and grey and brown
No mindless swarm.
Instead things reach up toward the sun, wallowing in its sweet heat as it vaporizes the night’s cool blanket of dew,
Relieving each small plant of its crown of frosting
A great defuzzing into midday clarity – something the city only dream of.