Hollow In The Grass

Sitting down in the long grass, now there’s a start
How often does one sit on the ground at the very least
And here one was sitting down in, the long grasses
They swirled in arcs accentuated now by the hand
Waving, pawing, patting, sweeping, grading

The counter-clockwise matching of body and field
Lying, sitting there like the girl from ‘Christina’s World’
By Andrew Wyeth, hip leaning into the movement
Torso twisting, right arm passing over the seedheads
Exploring the sensation, the symbiosis of being

Enveloped by this place, and now noticing the way
The stalks and long leaves folded in and further down
Disappearing into hollow in the ground, weaving
Like the pull of a hole, like a plughole and the water
Leaving this shallow land, seeing now the circle parting

At the centre and an open sky clear for miles below
Where a river wandered across a land quite clearly,
The banks where earth was exposed, the realizing
Of this second place, reeling with vertigo now, and
Definitely heading into this breathing of false surface

World and strength of landscape on flow of outbreath
Below, becoming part of this primal earth, what was
Before now just a show, mistaken identity, somewhere
Just out the back of a place behind a house by a road
Behind a picket fence and an old concrete path that

Lead out to a washing line and a chainlink fence where
One day one finds oneself on the ground alone, beyond
This, out on the backlot, the unassumming and forgotten
Field, with the world now just the intimacy of seedheads
And ants and the warmth of the past and the present,

And into this world you must go, one must, one finds
Oneself parting the grasses to the strangeness of the blue
Below, the open sky on another, prima materia, the body
Becoming the landscape, the river meandering, the sound
Calling one closer, folding in, enfolded, no longer hollow.


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