Under The Field A Heart Is Beating (by Simon Drew)
[The following poetic rollercoaster was kindly shared with us by Happy Cow's good friend Simon Drew. When he is not busy organising Vegetable Liberation meetings, Simon can be found surfacing from the depths, collecting more empty jars than he is ever likely to use, walking his pet dragon and running the online groups English Stuff and International Monthly Hatstand Day. If you feel like adding to the word melée, why not leave a comment at the bottom of this page? You can sign in to the comments widget using your Facebook or Google accounts, or just leave a message without signing in. Or if you think enough has been said, just click on the 'Like' button instead. Enjoy!]
Under the field
a heart is beating
a dead tree is reaching for the sun
flowers bloom and fade
bubbles on a plate
washing up
the last word echoes in the still air
till a spring breeze blows away all memories
of cold winter nights
the sky torn open by the rising sun
clouds drenched in blood
dirge and celebration ringing out from the tree tops
deep in the earth
all the voices hum
one like a jagged shard of ice
another the chaotic dancing of a flame
another is radio transmissions
bouncing off the grass above
laid deep in thick air
a wanderer takes refuge
under a flock of birds
the sky leans down to whisper
a drop of pollen on her cheek
10,000 years later
the honey tree grows
what was spied as a child
from the high window
when storms rolled in
and chopped the night
into flashing phantoms
and water gushing from the eaves
a face in the puddle
as leaf tips dropped
what they held for but a moment
time was infused into space
the tea drunk deep
heady, intoxicating
yellow rubber boots
on the path
that could never hold his feet for long
leaves floating down the gutter
were too much to bear
a race
a shudder
look into the night
when every sound is
the unfolding of movement
resting in the bed
outside,
all insides and outsides
a tree moving in the dance
of strength and yielding
scrapes fingers across the window pane
the iron roof a drum
creaking, possums feet
the coming and out of metal
another heart
across the road was another country
the letter box a treasure chest
the words they used
were arrows shot at the sun
and whole houses could be built
amongst the pillars
in the sturdy grass
rising, falling
the seas and mazes in the wooden floor
all the shadows alive
and the sun...
running could never be fast enough
flying, flying
the only way to move
no stories had been told of the body
no old men with patterns on a board
just a laugh between two desks
a note passed, a moment when eyes met
slicing deep in the orange to find it has no seeds
no one stopped, and hills rose
somewhere, if only a dream
once more, a rest in the light
a shout upon you
this thistle among the dandelions
bare foot, waiting, no
singing
pulling each leaf off and letting them fall
a day spent walking through proud kingdoms
and not a moment of bowed head
or questioning
or looking down from the trees
plastic bag in hand
every voice that was needed
in grains of sugar
the breeze kept blowing
no one called from the clouds
life happened despite the dams and trips ups
unfolding below
calling him down from the trees
he never left them
and still lingers there in the branches
watching
"It will not come by waiting for it. It will not be a matter of saying 'here it is' or 'there it is'. Rather, the kingdom is spread out upon the Earth and men do not see it." Jesus Christ (Gnostic Gospel of St Thomas)
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