Heidi

Busy stir and bustling mess,
People moving, nudging to and fro.
Little child, grain of flushed cheeks and trembling smiles,
With your little book in hand.

And knuckles pale in tenacious grip,
Though your suitcase loosely trails behind.
Feel the tear-stained pages and their bitter-sweet breath
Of ebony chocolate and childhood memories.

The large long mountains are proudly poised,
Beneath the tender caress of Swiss morning light,
Little child, don’t squeeze and strain your face,
In the sour taste of this light’s piercing glare.

Just think of the flowers in which you bathe,
An array of colours which dance and wave.
Reaching out and holding on,
To the playful summer breeze.

Then watch the sky light up in flames
As the sun whispers goodbye,
Its gentle voice the coolness of air
Clothing you with goodnight’s sleep.

But shutting your eyes, little child,
Amongst light’s piercing glare and the bustling mess,
The little book fall to the ground and then,
With a bleeding heart you pick it up again.