Son number two over that range of hills
In cowboy black I sit alone
Almost on top of the world
Slight wind
Maybe a zephyr
Among the grasses
Across the page
Through my thinning hair
Aircraft noise, out of sight
We are dreamers, one and all
Cut through or cut into the dust
Party time, it is too cold to fall
East
And North
Further than the crows flight
Quieter than the crows squawk
It could be that night
Summer evening up on Red Hill
That time, when
We were together
The sky was clearer
Yet I doubt any nearer
The time was dearer
We had no need to fear
Newly mown grass
Cocooned in bales of hay
Scent as fine as Yves Saint Laurent
White cotton blouse, weighed in
This is play
Time almost stood still
Smell of earth
All about the nostrils
Photographs
Of bluebells
