OUT RIDING
(Memory)
We are rolling through Southfields on the twist
of a breeze, like some overwrought dowser turning
a stick for water. In each direction we head, there is
another intention before us : the downturn of the
landscape, insufferable wetlands, or the
shacks along the old canal. Breezily, we'll
pass by them all. There's no telling what the
ending will be.
-
I can remember a hundred days like this before -
the treasure of rain on a brand new cap, the flat water,
jewelled with sunlight, or the low moan of that
distant small-craft airfield. By the wooden bridge
along the roadway, single-engine planes drone on,
overhead but very low, as if intent to amaze, or
snap the tops of the nearby trees.
-
It all amounts to something, I suppose -
a place we've been, an instance of something
long remembered, the knotted plane of
some life's old board. Like a memory
etched in cotton, it's hard to read and
harder to see - something somehow
there, but not.
(Memory)
We are rolling through Southfields on the twist
of a breeze, like some overwrought dowser turning
a stick for water. In each direction we head, there is
another intention before us : the downturn of the
landscape, insufferable wetlands, or the
shacks along the old canal. Breezily, we'll
pass by them all. There's no telling what the
ending will be.
-
I can remember a hundred days like this before -
the treasure of rain on a brand new cap, the flat water,
jewelled with sunlight, or the low moan of that
distant small-craft airfield. By the wooden bridge
along the roadway, single-engine planes drone on,
overhead but very low, as if intent to amaze, or
snap the tops of the nearby trees.
-
It all amounts to something, I suppose -
a place we've been, an instance of something
long remembered, the knotted plane of
some life's old board. Like a memory
etched in cotton, it's hard to read and
harder to see - something somehow
there, but not.
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