‘Yes, I will sing of thee,
So dear to me’s the theme,
And distant years shall hear the lay
By mountain, vale and stream..’
– Charles Spence, Perthshire, 1898
White Campion flower soaked fields in summer,
They choreograph in the breeze like awakened butterflies.
Trickle down run-off pools and ragged robins.
Slightly scented air pockets that fill you up
As you read against the Oak tree you’ve carved
Your name into a hundred times.
Hours spent inside your own little world,
Your father calls it the Pink Place I think.
The grass swaying still in the last breath of dusk.
Saturn and its moons fight for your attention as you raise your head.
The moon tonight is so bright
It follows you over your left shoulder, everywhere you go.
Checking the back of your hand
To find out which way left is…
Lamplights visible through the windows of your home,
Reaching across terrain.
Daydreaming in the nightfall.
You close your book as the light fades,
Back to the velvet scent
Of White Campion fields.