flight to neverland

Green is the colour of her eyes.
She never spoke to me,
but to the boy inside.
We shared some thoughts,
borrowed a few rhymes,
when evening would join
our little world of games,
we would steal hurried glances
at the clock.

It ticked slow and steady.
I kept calling her name,
calling it out slowly,
in my tongue borrowed
long ago,
in a strange foreign land.
Then she asked me
what it meant
and I sat silent.

We sat.
Not on a bench,
not in a little patch
of soft grass,
not by a pond,
not skipping stones
on the river,
not watching
the world.
We sat and looked
inside.

Spots of amber-grey
clouds wrestled for a place
within. Not finding anything,
they skipped
and ran away.
The sunlit stairs
kept raining down
on us
and we sat lost, looking
for them.