In a field of watermelons
and tall grass,
right in the middle,
sits a little girl
with curly flaxen hair
and little red rounded cheeks,
smiling a somewhat toothed grin
spitting seeds into a wide meadow pond
and laughing.
Laughing like she knows the world.

In the branches of the trees
of the dark forrest that overlooks the meadow,
the watermelon field,
little birds,
bright blues and reds,
twitter and fling themselves
from twig to twig.
Down below
the eyes of dark things watch.
Thick salivating tongues
red as blood.

But at the sun’s rays they hish and turn away.
At this lightness,
this ease of tone,
they screw their eyes up and their claws in
and retreat.

By the pond the little girl
has begun to dance
to music that only she seems to hear.
And over the brow of a hill
her mother’s voice comes seeping
in warm amber tones,
lilting roundedly and softly on the breeze.
The girl, hearing her mother’s voice,
turns homewards
running her hand through the grass as she goes,
as the light turns to golden twilight.

And as the night approaches,
in slow smooth strides,
and far away in the sky
the stars link arms and gaze down
on the little girls closing eyes,
her sleepy smile.