These kinds of reactions were the first attempts to connect the hills and the people in the foreground. Or, They have a sun like a solitaire nestled into them, but no for long. Sometimes you might look up at the hills and think, I am looking at the hills, and you might have some sort of reaction, e.g., They are dark against the white sky and are very beautiful. Maybe they say, If I hear that name one more time I’ll scream. Why don’t people get sick of their name? Maybe they do.
You might even get sick of them, of looking up at them and back again. (Why not fear something in the middle? Earth, wind, a few other things.)Īnd the hills were mostly benign anyway. You would be washed the other way, all the way into town. There was an article in the paper about the possibility of a tidal wave sweeping up the bay and taking everything with it, and if you hadn’t gone in the earthquake that preceded the tidal wave, you would now be finished off altogether. The problem would be if both hills caught fire at the same time, and the fires might burn down into the valley, and the trees would burn, and the lawns, and all our houses and their contents. There was only ever one hill on fire at a time. A prickly maze, a funeral pyre, / a golden haze, a monstrous fire. Of English descent it crowds the hills, / Originally meant for hedges and sills. I wrote it in my McCahon handwriting but much more neatly. My mother wrote the poem quickly as she peeled the potatoes – in fact she only said it. On the way home you could hear the black crackling and it seemed to have a personality, and not a very nice one. But serious enough to prompt a teacher to set a Poem for homework. It would seem like the hill was burning, but it was only the gorse. Most summers there was a fire on one of the hills, the east or the west, the sun-coming-up hill or the sun-going-down hill. In fact it will, because it is organic, but only after a very long time. I wish I hadn’t looked up at those hills so often – willy-nilly – between 19, and looked back down at the loved ones, because now I am left with this wire model and it will never go away. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a natural history section. I still have it in my natural history section, although sometimes I wish I didn’t. In any case, a round thing involving energy and with the potential to explode, but that would be in exceptional circumstances, probably never. It was a wire model of an atom like they had in the museum. With the hills and the loved ones far apart, your eyes would end up making so many trips back and forth that their orbit solidified into a sort of object. A family member or a friend might be called a loved one for short. Perhaps it would be a hill with a family member or a friend in the foreground. All this to say, in love we nest, and on Earth.īecause there were hills to the east and hills to the west, there was a good chance that when you looked at something it would be a hill.
8 GRAVES NUMB.M4A SKIN
Membrane animal, skin mammal under the osmosis moon.Īllow my tides. Monitor my yearn, and treat it with trees. Rot, eye-less wriggle, while the roots seek, seek. Scaffold me with metal, cage me in glass, tube me, What will survive me, O my cockroaches, O my lice? Or soon? Return of the albatross, godwitsīut: indigo thunder-stack, pink wisp. High-stepping and watchful over the darting fish? The roadside bluffs divulge their shells, Seeming steadfast, despite its restless sleep.Ī drop so steep it catches in the breath. On threads of green, wherever greenness lives. Gum, willow, wattle, elder, poplar, broom Releasing plant-scents in the angled sun,īruised sap, ripe humus, rising to the nose.Īnd the stream slinks down towards the river Oh where oh where oh where oh where oh where? Beneath the cliff the water dark blue glass.
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