Words under Pressure #9

Country Child

The city-born have no urge
For heights, green scents, or wind.
For silence at night, under
The fox’s solitary scream

The city-born are pleased
By architecture, light on water,
Bridged, boundaried, well-behaved.
All green contained, surrounded.

The city-born don’t know
The warmth of a fresh-laid egg,
The fish you caught yourself
Simple food eaten on hilltops.

Poor things.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.