A meadow split so well
written by: Michael Shea
A meadow split.
Small brown bird flits spasmodically through the grass, hidden like hunting lions,
and bobbing into view briefly to plummet again like a wind afflicted arrow.
The grass weaves sinuously with music like dry, dead beetles, pausing now and then but seeming like eons.
There are gaps through the stringy dance, passages with glimpses but suddenly narrow.
The odour is of cleanness but natural and open air, like puppy flesh and baby crevice, as if time would adjust the going there.
Below the beetle cracklings, beyond the windy, stringy and sinuous dance lay another sound, and another thing to see.
As progress made from lane to tree ridged distance, undulating stepping in lion festered weavings. I hear a distant tinkled chuckling as though a dozen folk are doing wee.
A glimpse of impossible diamonds suspended in nothing and brook like bubbling heard more near, more clearly.
Flotillas of dragon flies fly past fast, followed by brown arrow and dysfunctional butterflies flutter by.
From weaving lost infested walk I open onto Alice, shimmering mirror like and coloured like Monet tripped and tipped.
I see it all so dearly, my heart skips I cannot lie.
I close my eyes to snap shot and fragrance locked I inhale colours, warmth spreading outward in.
Can this be what it’s like please when I die,
woven carpet down beneath my naked feet does lie,
but my eyes cannot deny.
Tis like art of movement, colour, sound and smell.
split so well.
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