FIELDS OF GOLD

 

Gold grows in many ways-
like how the soil can be pressed with seed,
how a daisy decorates that which has been deserted,
how the sun burns at a safe distance
or at least it did, once.
All is relative, now, to time-
I didn’t know what ozone meant as a boy,
or Wifi or gluten free or panic or pandemic
but there were days when I could have cradled distancing
when school corridors closed in too tight
on skin that hadn’t been taught tough.
Gold grows in many ways
as we find a new rhythm of crossing over into fields
once forgotten where daises make waves instead of chains
and farmers strive to find fortune
for us all in fields of food.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

THE WOKEN DREAMER

I am the woken dreamer,
Lost from all faith
In the magic.
Finding an impossibility
In the longevity
Of ever after.

Is it really no more than
The stuff and nonsense
Of fairy tales
And children’s dreams,
Not fit at all
For real mens lives
And the in betweens?

I was willing once
To find favour
In the moment
But they have fallen,
So infrequent of late
That I fancy them now
To be the filling of folly,
Frivolous and fortune-less.

There were others once,
One time dreamers
Who once danced their dream
In to mine.

Did we lose each other,
Or was it all but a trick,
Have I spoken too soon,
Or have I woken too quick?

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