RECITAL AT GROVE
We take these things for granted:
the blood-red heart, the feelings
it throws. High above, some jewel-blue
sky tries echoing back all that we feel.
The jet-plane zones off, its race to
altitude now hardly worth the humming.
Tired days, these are, when the roar
and cacophony of our own intentions
spills. We stop at nothing. We go to France.
-
Your milk-money, I'd noticed, was still
pinned to your dress. No way to travel,
honey. In each of those dangerous lands
you speak of you'd be a sitting duck. Why
I myself, were I there, might lunge to
get you, take you, steal your goods
and money. It's just like that, doesn't
really mean a thing. We are traveling
people, our generations switch roles.
-
I'd much rather stay behind, now that
I think it over, and sing of happy fields
and wandered pastures, coves and
hamlets where I'd been to before.
This recital at Grove, this reverie,
would be my own personal moment
of true joy and happiness.
We take these things for granted:
the blood-red heart, the feelings
it throws. High above, some jewel-blue
sky tries echoing back all that we feel.
The jet-plane zones off, its race to
altitude now hardly worth the humming.
Tired days, these are, when the roar
and cacophony of our own intentions
spills. We stop at nothing. We go to France.
-
Your milk-money, I'd noticed, was still
pinned to your dress. No way to travel,
honey. In each of those dangerous lands
you speak of you'd be a sitting duck. Why
I myself, were I there, might lunge to
get you, take you, steal your goods
and money. It's just like that, doesn't
really mean a thing. We are traveling
people, our generations switch roles.
-
I'd much rather stay behind, now that
I think it over, and sing of happy fields
and wandered pastures, coves and
hamlets where I'd been to before.
This recital at Grove, this reverie,
would be my own personal moment
of true joy and happiness.
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