30th August 2017

At the end of the tunnel was a door.

I walked over to it.

I turned the handle.

I pulled; the door resisted but it opened.

All the colours of summer thrust in.

There were poppies, like bloody splashes, at my feet;

marigolds: each a dazzling, pulsing sun

beheld by the warm air.

Nettles pricked with purple tips.

Cornflowers spurted blue

amongst the grass.

Vines flowed through the door,

their liquid, limber tendrils

reaching for me

ripe with purple fruits

that burst under the gentlest press of my fingers.

Juices flowing, warm and sweet and sticky.

I licked my fingers clean

and watched the bees

dip from flower to flower

drunk on their heady pollens.

How could I know

from the darkness of my tunnel

such abundance as this?

I groaned with it,

it taunted all my senses;

I tumbled down

into the long grass,

the sensation of all that delicate contact,





my nerve endings.


I close my eyes:



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