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| works by Christine I Steeves Speakman |
How I wish you could see what I see. The scenes that go by so that words cannot nor are not enough to describe them.
The sky is the ceiling
The floor is made of grass and water
The walls the hills
Oh how I wish you to see these things
The clouds hang from the sky like mobiles from the ceiling above. You can see them floating there like ice cream in a cola float. They’re there almost solid. You can see through them. You feel as if you could walk in them surrounded by their softness.
Oh how I wish you could see how they drift down to meet the tops of mountains which are covered with the deep dark purple heather that has moulded itself to every shape. The little spots of snow are there also. Just reminders of how high that hill really is.
The hills that roll by go on and on . How long have they’ve been here. Since time itself. The hills are alive with everything. The colours are there but anyway to describe them is just out of reach.
Oh how I wish you could see the valleys that lie between the tranquillity of those hills.
The fields so alive with the dark fresh green grass that they demand your attention. The fields of bright yellow rape that jump out of the land to meet you. The darker yellow gorse that grows along side the road inviting you to come see to smell the little flowers but beware their touch. The patches of blue bells that dot the grass along the way so timid so strong. To look down on all this is to gaze upon a live quilt.
But of course you can’t forget the lambs sprinting along side their mothers their little tails beating strong as they nurse. Beside them is the mass of brown shaggy hair of the highland cow. All so peaceful. The river beside them rushes by so cold and clear. It flies over the rocks in its way. Everything is alive. The colours are everywhere. The highs of the hills fill you with wonder. The flatness of the fields fill you with peace. But to put them together is to make a masterpiece and that’s just what God did. He made a land that was meant to stay the same. Changing as the times and people did but not changing at all.
Oh how I wish you could see what I am. But in a way you do not watch it you live it. You become one with it.
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What is Poetry Starts?
…poems and prose from now back to teen years
…remembering a first writing love
…pumping the creative well yet again
…silencing the internal critic