She was lying on her back,
cool spring drifting in her eyes;
‘There.’
she pointed between the meeting of two pink clouds
golden light dazzling through.
‘There is the peak of Olympus.’
She twisted in her jeans,
‘And there, the entrance to Narnia,’
she was motioning to the evergreens
‘Just past the Faraway tree.’
The rustle of a rabbit
drew her gaze,
‘He’s late.’
she mumbled.
She always stumbled
never looking down
at her feet on the ground,
her head always in the clouds,
in the trees.
At every bar she simply said
‘This isn’t me.
Lewis and Carroll never would
have sipped here,
Homer would have despised
the jazz.’
I took her to fields instead,
to lie in the grass,
level with my eye,
to watch the sky;
the writer I was lucky
to call mine.
© Kristiana Reed 2018
This is beautiful.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you 😊
LikeLike
Wow🌹
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you 🙂
LikeLike
oh wow! This is great, Kristiana! Bars never seemed my style either. always felt clumsy and awkward amid the cigarette smoke and the shouting over the music. “What’s that!?…yes!! I do like opera!!…I’m sorry what?….oh…you said do I come here often?!?….um….no…..” LOL.
Beautiful piece! 🙂
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you Eric ☺️ Bars are not for conversations haha!
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is really a wonderful piece. I don’t know if it’s intentional, but there seems to be a slight shift in your voice. Your style.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh wow! This is amazing. So original. Very very clever and very atmospheric. I love it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you 😊
LikeLike
Love, love, love
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! ❤️
LikeLike