Lime tree orchards

 

I sit with the weight

of stories left hanging,

cobwebbed threads

dangling

high above.

In dark corners

they ripple,

in every breath

of wind.

Created by

story weavers,

spinners of yarns

tales to set sail on.

Upon the tails

of almighty great dragons.

 

Across grand deserts,

and oceans of ice,

into cavernous spaces

carved from mountains of time.

In the lime tree orchards,

where green citrus grows,

amongst the flowers

and the scents that ease

teasingly into the nose.

Where we sat

and watched as the sun rose,

we picked at red flowers

upon the grounds of the grove.

 

Through the shimmering skylines,

reflecting in the rippling waters below,

along the riverside,

to where the bells chime bellows.

We fly across landscapes of tarmac,

asphalt scars on the green map,

Ant-like people crowded in packs.

We survey, and then we fly back.

To our sweet retreat,

beneath the green leaves,

where the air is pleasant

and citrus clean.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Kyle