Golden Girl

There has been a storm and there will be a storm again.
Sat amount the heath of forget-me-not. But I will forget you. I am blind. Blind to your golden pot of impoverished -brass- spectrum. Reconciled only by music. By heat, by wind captured in my bonnet - Alive and feeling but everything disappearing, to darkness, to static and then: her hand. Warm and worn. Young and alive, fighting for the colours in the sky.
Now I do not miss the rainbow.
The golden fields of livestock. My reflection in the stream is but a painting, but a dream.
But now I am ok. I am still. Butterfly fly away. For she is my eyes and I am her home. There is no place that we cannot roam.