Through fields we flew, picked and drug up
potatoes scattered on the sides of the roads
hawks, stalking fields in the summer-
we mice hidden in fear of claws and beaks.
Ancient brick yards,
battered grainery keys-unlocking short fortunes ,
apples in the darkest spaces of the barn, rolling .
Orchard gruff, muddy and bare
In the evenings the winds howl through the diseased horse chestnut trees of the road-deeply blighted moans
and somewhere in the window across the overgrown Village Square, lights will twinkle & fade, bouncing
off the fallen dormitories-trees growing up from between the collapsed floor boards and rooftops
from beneath my early footfalls
Sometimes the sheep will gather in the empty moat-
collecting thistles on their thick wool we would hear the sloshing of an ancient chord, a harmony of water that ran up hill sunk carp in its depths-ate trees in the midst with one giant gulp.
In the forests the sheep would wander and cut through the mossy crumbled walls of the old fortress we'd smell the decay and watch the moss bury the trees
we'd choke on old bottles, trip on china plates
that emerged from the ground in our pathssss
In summer, light would filter in through the treetops and criss-cross lines of reason, it pushed the grass to
grow past our knees and knettles to claim our shins,
we would limp in and out trying to tie and rebuckle
our shoes.
I'm tyring to get back each memory of creening through
Radostovice into the bull pen, into the fields with the fawns…
