A Nod to Hearses

  



I was almost leaping,
bounding through the deepest meadow
since '93, not even caring
when the thistles came up to greet me, 
or when spiders were poised to attack.

I wasn't happy, though, simply content
with capturing crickets behind shutters,
even getting a bit too close to them.

The way the hills rose
in great, colourful mounds 
made me swoon and remember,
then remembering to swoon

over Fishers Lane,
over dimly lit sparklers
over fine cushions 
which held my every infantile dream.

I would only stop day-dreaming
to nod at the passing hearses,
look to the barren patches
where trees once stood,
and laugh at the contrasts between us.