A walk beside fenced rolling grass,
Old village houses and their twinkling glass,
A pebbled path away to depths of civility,
To hidden lodges lambasted by their shrubbery,
I never see the people of these houses,
Perhaps one day they'll stand in sight -
Neat shirt all tucked and blouses.
An image that can't help but be,
So different from the bare reality.

Hot day,
I'm a puddle on the floor,
Melted from a walk by burning tarmac,
The sun straight vertical overhead,
Leaving shadows shrivelled under,
And I set out for more,
Getting back to the body is worth the rays.