Black days / blacker days : days of fresh winds and bracken roofs - tepid days of short duration - freedom days of stony paths to high cups and vistas into mountains - black blue days of firmament stars and brushy fields with gates and dock leaves.
Past the gate then across fields to low walls then rutted track lanes and more stiles. Crushed days then Unfurled then stretched out then chewed up and spat. Big days and mercy days by the black barn field house next to the river to swim next to the yellow river flowers... blue stones and home to supper in wellingtons. Thereby ensuring the continuation of these days. The church clock strikes the quarter hour every hour and still strikes now, in the village with the rain. The choking stones cling to the wall of dry stones in the hedges by the lanes. The otters go home through the docks tickling their flanks on the sedge. The heron stalks fish. The cup is chipped but contains tea with milk and sugar and drips lukewarm tea annoyingly from the saucer where it’d spilled. The two blond lasses try to catch a small horse on the fell past the lane end - the bridle ready but the horse not. The treacle sits calmly in its tin on the second shelf in the musty cupboard - next to the small bag of plain flour and the jars of herbs as the rain trammels on the roof. We is all but lost in the drip of rain the curtain of drops the bone China the cuttlefish bones in the budgie’s cage. The shells on the window and the tarry sand shoes the radio with velvet crooners and biscuit tin battles. And all lost and found lost and found. Sent from my spyphone
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