A straw-textured, weave-flamed layer of hair swoops across a smooth, perfect forehead;
A hand grips mine, and in step, we walk past the tiny, broken farm gate;
Where fat pigs had once stormed across the mud-soaked ground:
And little chickens, fresh from their eggs, had clattered under the watchful eye of the sky;
Clucking to one another in animalistic play.
The path swerves to an ominous left, and we follow it down a desolate road;
Where no shiny, classic cars zoom through the silent, still air;
And no townsfolk ruminate in the once crowded square;
It is only silence that pierces the tongue, freezes the senses.
This hat-topped man and I, disrupt our entwined fingers;
Battle the other as we weave through tall grass and stinging nettles,
That tear an awful gash as red mixes with the soil on our skin,
And soft skin shifts to shades of medium pink, light crimson, as a flower.
Together once more, we plunge into the white ripples on a blue lake;
Turn to the other with pink love in our gaze,
And bask in the solitude, the fresh air that fills our lungs,
Clasping a red rose that droops lovingly at the stork,
And hangs like silkworm in the darkening blue gloom;
And ends our country walk.