Saturday, 7 September 2013

Foraging


Consciousness glides, up through the shallow snores.
Awake? Yes, awake: thinking of coffee and outside.
The windowscape is cloud and blue.
Walk? Dog's supine loll is compacted and sprung.
Ah, we are both renewed this morning. The fields are calling: they are stubbled and bleary, waking like drunks.
Wine glasses wait by the sink. They have stains the colour of lips.
Coincidental.
Out holding a tub, to stalk the edge of stalks, peering for dark gleams. Some will fall into fingers, some require a twist, some a reach, a risk of nettle rash, of wasp, of scratch.
Rain circulates, light as breathing.
Three horses out, they have heard the field call too.
Will the dog mind if they gallop?
No, she will thrill at the hoof thump and later eat some dung.



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