Sunday, June 08, 2008
Out and About
Surrounded by the twitter and sliding whistles of hidden birds. The waving meadow sprinkled with buttercups. I sit, on an old wooden log, long dead, gilded like the elegant decoration of a tall mans tomb by a group of energetic nettles. They carry on guarding even as I sit here trying to stamp them out in case I get stung on my exposed legs. The ground is cracked and at selected times the odd beetle or ant crawls up from it's hideaway to give me a glance.
Whilst dangling from a tree lavishly, like a lion or leopard in the shade, an ant crawls up wild terrain of my index finger. Held up by the cross of branches, I angle my head to caste gaze across the hills and valley. Little toy houses bunch together amongst groups of pimply trees. It could be 1969, it could be a secret place. It could be for a Secret Seven. But I just sit in a natural seat, watching the ant crawl all over my white rectangle like it were football pitch, testing the grounds. The sun disappears, now just a luminescent glow fading towards the skyline. A coolness draws down on me and the buttercups go still. Telephone poles turn dark grey and I turn into just another shadow surrounding a log. The ant is blown off my hand. I elongate my legs and proceed to lurch over the long grass towards the dark corner of the field.