The hues of new spring surround
the enclosed and brutal red,
Purple mist and hard ice ground
is Mossfield in the mown grass, dead
Winter; Summer, breeze allows
flags to wave above the grey,
As a golden god follows
a young boy, itching to play.
Cool wind rattles past his ears
with no cares around his neck:
All concentration, no fears.
Only time stood still and watched his fall - crack.
Splintered, he is blissfully unaware,
His eyes plastered with a blank, peaceful stare.