Not Waiting
 
I won’t wait
I’ll spend my time admiring the colours of Diana’s hair or
searching for meaning in the
ribbed patterns of clean-washed sand.
I’ll walk through damp fields where
snail shells shatter when I tread on them.
 
I’ll sketch trees with iron and bronze crayons:
compare the hues to a
November bonfire. I’ll squash a rose-hip berry and
watch it weep between my fingers.
 
At the end of not waiting
I’ll follow the cracked path that leads to home.
Light a fire in the empty hearth and burn chestnut
shells. Their spiny coats
already charred by flames of
majestic oak.

Andrea Bowd

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Andrea Bowd  would be pleased to hear them.