Fingertips playing over lined wood,
Tracing memories long lost to time.
Lounge upon a summer’s day,
Breathing in the cool damp earth.
Let the green grass whisper,
Like the gurgle of a flowing stream.
Ask yourself in the sudden still air,
What was the secret of my youth?
There if you can pay attention you’ll find an answer,
In the grooves of time itself.
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.