One With The Sun

Child one with the sun in trackless fields of yellow grass and thistle, scent of humid heavy air and the wing music of bees and flies. Child, slender nakedness to itself unknown, true colour of the light dispersed invisibly or glowing around the black hulls of distant thunderheads, around the grasshopper’s countenance, solemn, vigilant and wise. Green apples, poured full of density, of crispness, float unmoved under leaves on the slope. Brown fallen apples nest in secret whorls of grass. The apple tree: alone in so much space. And below in the woods by the water a sweet dead branch cracks lightly in the shadow in the wind. But here is an old track through the grass head-high to a child: who made it? They must have passed and passed by this one tree, by the abandoned, tireless car where rabbits peer out, and the circle of black embers, cans, springs, skeletons of furniture. They too passed here many times on their way from the street’s end to the oaks that screen the river. There the sun is nesting now, night rises with pale flutterings of white wings from roots of plants and the black water.