1973

On late summer days I used to lay in the grass – facing the sun, clouds rolling past – and I used to wonder about the colours on the insides of my eyes, like black spots in my blood, ******* like flies, like grasshoppers, just out of reach.

And the skylarks would sing of their secrets.

I’d have a blade of grass at the side of my mouth, with the smell of the heat on the wind from the south, and I’d wonder about the spiders, hiding in the corn, and what must it be like to have never been born – like a grasshopper, just out of reach.

And the skylark would sing me her secrets.

Then I’d go down to the river, swim to get cool; I’d get back to the haybailing soon, but there’s one who’s got freckles like she was made from the sun, just one, like a grasshopper, just out of reach.

And the skylark would sing me my secrets.

Spiralling, spiralling up,
Singing of signs and wonders.
CrookedMan CrookedMan
46-50
Mar 26, 2013