Cut grass holds a faint petrol scent; meadows mown.
A thin white plastic stick with petal-edged cup emerges in a cut and tumbled wave; becomes a rose woven into the surface: an ornate brooch upon the lapel of a green woollen jacket.
Dried golden-brown by the sun, and removed forcibly from its host: a shattered limb, fissured; paper peeled away: revelations from its past.
Splayed hands, jagged fingers that lift, curl in the breeze, stroking bodily warmth.
Underneath, a vast green-yellow stubble appears, and just-visible roots.
Rapid warm blades pierced this rich earth, disturbed its surface noise, all un-knitted, it will soon be knitted back again.
Soft fuzzed bands of red and black are broken: an intimation of evening thunderstorm, a parting cloud.
Legs grasp at nothingness, remember portals, stems, petals, light and shade. Two perfect eclipses reflect a sweet working life fulfilled.