Thursday, 27 February 2014

The Hissing of Summer Winds in Tall Grass

I woke up today just as I did yesterday and the day before that. The view has changed in recent times, the bed too. Another story, another place. The seasons merge into one. It strikes me we British now have two - warm and wet  cold and wet. The seasons extend and with it that new view out of my window.

There is no one lying beside me, no one to fit my shape, no spine to chest, no buttock to groin, no calf to shin, no breast cupped within the palm of my hand. I remain as I am. My flesh dreams of another's form against me, of how our intricate choreography might move, pronounced by the cover of cotton sheets, to the passion of our hearts - a kabuki beneath bed linen.

The everyday remains still life. A testament to sameness. No new memories threaded, no new journeys taken. The lines upon my face are souvenirs, baggage gathered. I dream of whispered words, of a cello played mournfully, of a woman with legs spread to accommodate the instrument. Her hands shape sounds, her elbows create the continents for her melodies to flow over like the hissing of summer winds in tall grass. The dreamed sound populates my waking and my sleeping hours. A trick of the imagination, a sleight of wishful thinking.



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Russell Cuts the Corn

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