My Fingers Do The Touching .

My fingers do the touching, As I write my poetry,
Each word I write I touch I feel,
Just like the blind reading Braille 
I go over each word lovingly,
Like the blind person touching feeling each word, he's reading.!!
On his face, it shows the vision within, 
Although he's blind he can see the colours..
Vision- Impaired in his mind he can see, 
Colours his imagination so attuned he's he. 
In the midnight by the moonlight bellow that hill,
Where the firelight was dancing high and I mesmerised leaped sky high
Dancing in the flames like a fairy playing a game.. the beautiful flames
Bellow that hill those, flowers forbidden to touch, 
I picked a bunch, from the enchanted jungle, so high. 
By the riverside, I took my time to bathe, to soak my weary body
In all innocence by the river bed. Covered in dust by the long road 
Got on the bus with my words, Broken French and Spanish words, 
Somehow I seem to manage fine.. Always travel with my book of words, 
I seem to be far, far from you or am I!
At that mountain high, the rain came tumbling by 
And I soaked wet took shelter at the first houseI came by  
Ah the welcoming scent of that coffee 
Walking through the meadows, 
On a different route where I may stay, just a little while. 
Taking a gamble on the southern dawns, 
I can feel the dew as I walk across the river
As I bathe fingers I feel writing over me, 
With a bit of madness a bit of poetry some shedding of tears 
And my senses, my senses. It started all over again.

                                    Connie James.