It is like this...

By Olivia Comstock

 

It is like this

The gravel beneath my feet,

Sometimes bare

Sometimes not

The sides slope down

To fields of hay

The grass grows thick there

It's never cut

The wind is kind

It plays through my fingers

Like a sort of music

The sun hangs low

Then dips below

And fades from sight

The light it leaves

Will soon follow

So from west I turn

Always towards home

Like this it is

When I stand on the road