Friday, 21 September 2012

BLOGEXTRA - Bleached

(Christina’s world by  Andrew Wyeth)

Lying awake rather than asleep.
The slice of a blade on my forearms
stabs through the sun glare.
I can cloud catch here
and hear
the clanking of the plough bit.

Rough straw points stubble
against my palm,
through my fingers,
layer by layer
down through skin till the tip
of golden grass scrapes along
living bone.

Lay here for days, stretching out.
Drying white and tight
Flattened by the sky.
Getting lighter. Bleached

in the field.

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