She played in the overgrown, back field of weeds,
With her playmates, surrounded by colourful beeds,
Strung accross the forest, with it’s wild flung seeds,
With the sound of the cuckoo like an echo of nature’s chance,
She is a princess holding close her prince as they dance,
Her shyness captures the beauty of words in her head,
Dreams caress her unexplained fears,
As later, she slept in her bed,
Colliding stars, sparkle and explode with passion,
Turning her worn, blue dress into the height of fashion,
She feels like an orphan of these city streets,
With the constant, noise of traffic with dust and grime,
But in her field of weeds, her blue eyes shine,
With the fascination of been able to change the precious nettles,
Into pink and white petals,
In the cooling breeze they fall onto her fine, brown hair,
A hat of flowers settles.
She was a child of the wild ways,
Of natures hidden, forgotten places,
Reality was the freedom of stories told abour her many faces,
A cowgirl, an orphan, a princess of the wide open spaces,
A different pace,
Away from the concrete race,
She still holds these memories of who she was,
As her soul still feeds,
From the abundance of creativity of her childhood
In the glorious field of weeds.
Field Of Weeds
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