My Name is Sarah

Sarah's weary fingers slide free from the music's hold
to stroke the softness of grass, never at rest.

The tilt of her head embraces the sun's colour while the
damp waft from Mary's golden hair plays at her nostrils.
She feels the swinging four-button boot and grasps tight
the hand.

Donkey gives the signal, time to move on. Crow shrieks
takes off to the gate with no purpose. Cow blows her horn
horse complains, the haystack bales and the butterfly taps
it's gentle metronome on Sarah's cloak.

Who will sew another patch on Sarah's skirt while she will
tear the paper from her chest again.