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.