Rachel Small

Montague Fields

We stood

in a field bordered by skeletal trees.
They shiver, grey bodies twisting in the

wind. Orange tangerine sun hangs high
in the sky. A reminder, of golden harvest

while we stand amongst the beginnings
of wild hay. It grows plainly and

stubbornly. I once fell in love with a
photograph of the ocean. Sky pressing

rolling blue waters. So much depth, visible
on the surface. People can vanish within

the waves. In the field we only stand,
side-by-side. Our hands do not touch.

The sky feels distant here. Grey bleak horizon
is veiled by the lonely trees. Only when wind

shifts branches do we gaze towards that
hard line in the distance.

The world is untouchable.

Rachel Small writes in Ottawa. A post-undergrad student from Carleton University’s History program, she is currently a writer and editor for AtticVoices. Her writing has appeared in SPINE, Pulp Poet's Press, and Marias at Sampaguitas, and she has work forthcoming in The Hellebore and Bywords. You can find her on twitter @rahel_taller.