Lark of Concrete Fields (Poetry Portrait)

He danced in a field of wild flowers,
took their memory across the sea
– long weeks away from home
(but the game went with him, even when he played on foreign shores)

There’s golden sunshine and the colour of rain-wet straw,
the lark in the meadow sings out to him,
and the song of a travelling bard
(and the songs play inside him, beckoning to follow)

A spring in his step and sparkling laughter in his eyes,
he dances for himself and fights for a better world,
miles to go and people to meet
(be it on green grass or grey pavement, both are his playground)