Across a field

Across a field, not green,

hoarfrosted white,

wet as snow, crystal-crisp,

we tread, you and I,

like dancers.

Above our heads,

the sky, shroud-pale,

criss-crossed with wings,

soundless rhythm of the air.

Between us and the sea,

a river of mist leads on and on.

I take your hand,

we step,

dance steps,

through the crisp-crunching, white-furred grass

until we hear the sound of waves

beating on the gull-speckled shore

of our dreams.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

3 thoughts on “Across a field”

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