There is an island I know
I shouldn’t even mention—
it’s a fairy tale, you see
where no one wears shoes
and no one needs to—
the houses are hobbit-like
with grass on the roofs
and the food is fresh from a nearby farm
every morning the tea sits steeping
on long wooden counters
with toast and jams from local berries—
the crickets always crick here
and the birds call, the kind
that make you stop and say,
“Now that is a beautiful song”—
the sun is hot
without a cloud in the sky
and the beach runs out for a mile
in silky white sand
so that when the tide flows back in the afternoon
it heats up, warm as a bath,
when it rains
you build puzzles, and paint, and read
and light fires that crackle
and smell like cedar saunas
and each night, rain or shine,
you drink wine
and listen to records
while you play games—
and sometimes
you’ll lay in long grass
and chase the stars around the sky
heads close together with the ones you love—
each day is the same
you do what brings you peace—
and the wildest part of it all
is the island is real
my toes are in its sand.
Other Poems Read Today:
- "If" by Rudyard Kipling
- "A Dream Within A Dream" by Edgar Allan Poe
xx Atticus
@atticuspoetry
www.atticuspoetry.com