A picnic? A picnic? A picnic it is then.
Tins emptied, veggies chopped, mayonnaise squirted,
garlic pressed, chipolatas fried, mango chutney packed,
sarongs, water, keys, tickets, phone, ready.
Text messages, roads closed, under the east pillar.
The smell of fried sausages assaulting the nostrils.
This bridge might be a good spot.
That field might be a good spot.
Here under the tower is a hard spot,
but here under the tower is a good spot.
Trip, tread, careful, slow.
A wave, a smile, no grass to be seen.
We three spread and open,
a salad, some wine, bread, dips
Munch, chew, swallow, sip.
Mm, perhaps we have too much.
The sun sets behind
And glows in the windows
of the tower in front.
What time is it?
Is it time yet?
Is it time yet?
No, it’s not time yet.
It’s not dark yet.
A voice booms out,
echoing incoherently across the wide open spaces.
Is it time yet?
No! It’s not time yet.
Le Tour glows green.
A roar from the crowd,
like a Mexican wave they rise.
Sit down we shout back.
The first notes swim across the champs.
Strings of lights beam up into the sky.
A lump sticks in my throat,
and a fountain of fire rises.
Dandelion heads
descending into a shower of golden fireflies,
twinkling brightly
Then dying out.
Hoops of red white and blue,
hearts reaching out to love you,
twirlers skittering into the sky
exploding loudly into a rainbow
Finally the fountain reaching ever higher, higher.
It’s white brightness glowing on our open mouthed faces.
Explosions of colour upon colour.
A moments silence.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: poem, skipping through grass
