The Fields

Through hiraeth's lens, age's
wisdom - the grindstone of
responsibility - those late 90s
summers and spring's dew on the
schoolyard grass, was it all so
strenuous?

I have tattooed over the scraped
elbows, the tree sap, the cuts and
bruises. I wonder if I'm remembered.
I wonder if my ghost will sail
back to those fields after all is said and
done.

Back then, the winter meant snow, and
July's sun was just enough. Sticks were
whittled to swords. Trees were castles.
Hours were minutes, and the moon was an
uninvited guest. Strange how sometimes we
couldn't wait for it to end, and now we'd
pay anything to take it back.