Rusty glass.

A while ago, I asked some of my friends to start a poem and they asked me to complete it as soon as possible.

This is one of the poems that was created that night which I edited recently.

~

Sitting near,
Where the river flows,
With a million broken pieces of glass…

Some of them
Cut through my skin
And change the tranquil colour of the grass.

I admire the picture,
That I have in my hand
It is now around six decades old

When, near this river,
Sat my old Pa with his “everything”
“There was no grass here back then”
So I have been told.

Six decades later,
Somebody my age, with their “everything”
Will be told about this grass
That magically changed it’s colour
When I touched the rusty glass.

The end.