Dream Town

Dust of the summer hues in the evening rays. Between the hedges, the sun goes down. It casts long fingers across the fields of light, beds go gold, the fingers pet the land. Eyes mellowed by the cotton sky and memory clouds, thee cushions of the evening, a reminder of night, the pillowed heads of dream town. From here, the men drive up and down the furrows, the wheel marks all the same, the pathways of life unchanged. The buzzard calls by, the quiet one, the one who knows not to be heard. Movement of the wings, hovering the dust, the watchful eye over time. Furrow in the skies, the invisible paths, the hunters trails, unchanged over time, this is not our sky, feathered leaf dwellers smooth the evening blue with fawny tawny arms, wings, hugging the sky, wanting to be hugged, sometimes calling like a baby or meowing like a cat.

Gold, gold, old golden sun, you know the one, the round ball that hangs low over the field of light. Shadows longer, longer now, they play and a flock of crows casts a shadow, a shadow flock on the open field. Calls of birds at the end of a great day saying’I’m here, where are you brother’, ‘I’m here sister. The chicks are nearly fledged’, ‘good nearly fledged’. Up and down the harvesters go, collecting the summers gold, the food, the wheat. The big rotary comb, sweeping the stalks, cutting, de-seeding, and straw, golden leftovers. The biscuit man then come to collect it, to suck it into an other process, to make it into bales, giants on the landscape. 

Husk

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The husks of life return again, the seeds gone and autumn in the breeze. Breezes chill and start to close the summer still with us but end will soon. Quiet nights and and singing mornings the combine harvesters dream of wheat. Bails of straw, bedding horses and cows, the shallows moons shine on the fawning lands. Flowers last smiles and greens on the turn, foot steppers ready their boots for autumn walks.

Pillow Head

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Little light shines on the mornings dew , the wheat now nearly ready, a hot summers growth. Apples hang the trees heavy and mouths water in anticipation. Foot-steppers walk their walks and heads full of thought disappears step by step, mornings falling and stars sleeping, dew drop fading and the light is gaining. Eyes rise to meet the road and watch the life around. Fields full with animals, foxes, badgers, rodents living their lives in the freshness of it all. Under the bridge the liffey slips and the fish follow the swords of light that poke through the murky slow moving waters. People go about their days some never see the sky and only see the rains. The horses that pulled the fruit carts now sleep and rest and the dwellers of old town gone, the voices still echo the streets the memories live on, on , on. Sleep when the curtains of night are drawn and the candles have burnt out, sleep in the velvet dark the silkiness of memory. Night walkers shade the lights and shadows fall to ground, taxi lights yellow the wet roads and hushhhhh is the sound. Hushhh the night, the soft pillow heads, the memories will dissipate, easier to cope, it will get with supports in place the house won’t fall and we”ll see another day , an other glorious day.

Small Days

Small days lift in the big world. Little thoughts in the evening the people coming home. The eyes looking out at the layers of light and the stories down below. Down there through the clouds, light caresses the beautiful. The cream, the blue, the jet streams behind. Drinking coffee in the sky and artists looking out. All up there in the high, it’s cold and it’s cool and clear with the sun. Flight FR509 took off and leveled in the blue, blue above and black. There’s dog hill road below and people playing ball. The work men laying roads and sheep and birds and all. Flies sleep in the cold air, frozen like their friends and the warm sun thaws them as fall like leaves to the ground. Days of walking, walking with no destinations. Walking through town and back again and not knowing where you were. Up there in the clouds there’s people, cloud people crossing and going over head. Through the night they travel and head the east or west. Sun follower leave in the mornings and black birds sing them their way. The seagulls sit on the wings of the planes and try and guide their way. Who cares where the pilot goes he flies in every way. Adventure of flight in the new sky and sitting in a chair. Head down on the inside, but eyes looking out. The boys hand that was held wonders the estates and falls down now alone. Down there in the hollows and drowning under the bridge, the swallows never came that year they never flew under the bridge.

Little Meadows Of The Sky

Small days lift in the big world. Little thoughts in the evening the people coming home. The eyes looking out at the layers of light and the stories down below. Down there through the clouds, light caresses the beautiful. The cream, the blue, the jet streams behind. Drinking coffee in the sky and artists looking out. All up there in the high, it’s cold and it’s cool and clear with the sun. Flight FR509 took off and leveled in the blue, blue above and black. There’s dog hill road below and people playing ball. The work men laying roads and sheep and birds and all. Flies sleep in the cold air, frozen like their friends and the warm sun thaws them as fall like leaves to the ground. Days of walking, walking with no destinations. Walking through town and back again and not knowing where you were. Up there in the clouds there’s people, cloud people crossing and going over head. Through the night they travel and head the east or west. Sun follower leave in the mornings and black birds sing them their way. The seagulls sit on the wings of the planes and try and guide their way. Who cares where the pilot goes he flies in every way. Adventure of flight in the new sky and sitting in a chair. Head down on the inside, but eyes looking out. The boys hand that was held wonders the estates and falls down now alone. Down there in the hollows and drowning under the bridge, the swallows never came that year they never flew under the bridge.

Light Shows Deep

Morningless smiles on the early streets. The people make their way home. The birds still hanging onto the sleeping branch and watching with one eye. The cans of deep night footballed down the streets and goals that were never achieved. Hope is in the air, the early air that’s rising. This is a new day, a day that was hoped for. It’s coming you know the sun and the light, to shine in your life and 

into your cold corners. Light and warmth shining in the shadows of night. Derelict men longing to be hugged and as they hug the bottle. Warm is the morning from beneath 15 tog, toast is the morning smell and coffee in the breeze as well. Healing hands walk the up old court roads and head for the mount above, where castles watch from towers of old and memories of child. Children who played these fields and built little huts in the hedgerows, that called out in the night to deafened ears and walked on there own through teens. Cows bow their heads as you pass now a move across the day. They watch the city morning and they feel the morning pain. Up rise the starlings in their magic flock and down go the starlings as they dance the weaving show. Hold it the morning, the light shows and the magic. Even in the pain and cold, it’s real to feel the heart and soul. The streets that are empty now and the streets that are cold, woman and men who lived here, loved the corners and hugged the streets.