In the distance you can hear them:
whispers from the future of promises perpetually unfulfilled.
Behind you a collage
the image they create is one of doubt
and you will look back 
over those distant fields of the past,
tempted to run through them again
touching the tall grass as you pass on through.

The air is filled with the smells of spring:
those fragrant simple beginnings
beneath the joyous azure skies,
sunlight winking through the passing clouds.
You are a child again,
such mystery, such wonder.

As you near the edge of that sudden precipice,
the sight of distant portentous clouds 
rolling in from the ocean fill your horizon.
The air laden with consequence...
it is such a long way down to the sands below.
The fields are forgotten,
what remains of them clutched in your fists.
In time their essence will fade,
the dry stalks a memento of their former splendour.

This is your new home:
upon the cliff's edge,
dead grass in your hands gazing out
at those dark clouds that will never reach the shore.
The promise of closure,
the hint of an eventual embrace.
You begin to yearn
for the rain and the sand
and the songs they will sing.