Treebursts and Arenas


Treebursts above rustled. Flavour fell from them

Like invisible pollen, a tang of midday taste.

Still turning in my mind, the cider’s view

Of all else, happy, a sprawled-out latitude:

I turn upward to an orchestra of leaves.

A low sun water, like falling asleep,

Circled on itself outwards by the river, beside.

Pulled down by this playful grass, tickling,

In a dunderheaded just-gone midday

And up, the sky tie-dyed with hippy patches

Of impossible blue and implausible gold,

Bunched by cloud. A heat I can only rest under,

A drawn day heat I can only remain beneath,

Unashamedly I bliss out the evening

Until the day strains out, leaves me tea-coloured,

All will to speak, loose Arenas in my hand.


After a bit of an encounter with Somebody rather amazing, I realised that however sweet things had been that evening, things would never work out. It was a sad realisation in some ways, but it was also strangely liberating. It was glorious, actually. I could just sit under the benign sun and dwell on the sadness of it, and eventually be ready for the next Somebody top take me in their arms. There. Self-indulgence satisfied. 


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