The World.

You are December

with a frozen nose ,

Icy toes and one star above.

You are Sunday morning 

opening its eyes and grinning.

You are the victim of 

the sunflowers grin.

You are the poems

threads tied nearly together.

You are the impossibility

of  magnets touching each other.

You are the taste of

purple blackcurrant

when it drips out the cup.

You are the sunny autumn

shining on wet grass.

You are a football being

kicked across the forest green grass.

You are like a golf ball flying

through the air.

By Kieran