Islands in the Grass

I see glimpses of what I’m running from

In rows of houses all shaped the same

Stretching further every year

Trying to catch up with me

 

Fences in between

Say ‘stay out of my Eden’

Islands in the fresh-mowed grass

Nations of white collars

 

I pass a youth with sullen eyes and a lip ring

He is embarrassed by the man with the toe shoes

Embarrassed to be seen with his parents

He walks apart from them, feigning isolation

 

I feel his jealous gaze as I dash past

A boy who yearns to break free

As I have

Tearing away from the endless avenues of 2.5 storeys and 2.5 children

 

Freedom is the hill on the edge of town

A stack of topsoil, the kind made for bikes and sleds

The kind that summons nostalgia

The kind that will soon be swallowed by a themed community

 

It is a place where I can survey the town that I escaped from

And look to the beckoning mountains beyond

Where houses don’t grow like weeds