Morning.
Sun-thrown.
Early.
I rattle your letterbox.
You emerge, yawning and fuzzy with self-neglect.
Your blinks are long :
attempts to re-capture a dream
or assessments of your readiness to waken.
I go and stand in the street.
The children feed me liquorice and sherbet.
They hug my legs
and give me dandelion and burdock to drink.
The bright red door eases open and you descend
like one of the Romanovs
leaving the Livadia Palace at Yalta.
Or alighting from the Imperial Train.
The Imperial Train.
You ascend into the Gondola on my back.
(Did I mention I had a Gondola on my back?)
Sunlight
filters through the gauze.
Sunlight
is carved into wedges by the frame
and fold upon fold of damask and calico,
the colour of milk and butter,
blends with it's diluted yellowness.
You recline.
You are as light as light.
Softly buttressed by a festoon of cushions
the colour of ivory.
Ivory.
Easing forward I overcome my inertia.
One knee, always the same knee, cracks as it is bent
and I settle into an amble.
I hear the hiss of an atomiser
and microscopic droplets of cinnamon and orange
disperse into the static air.
I throw my nostrils back up to my crown
and every stray particle
is inhaled like nourishment.
Nourishment.
My steady trundle gets us to the outskirts
of the weary sandstone town
and we navigate nature's undulations.
Passing spire and steeple.
Passing inn and blacksmith.
Passing cottage and campsite.
Until the whole horizon is green.
A massive art-deco cube of thick mahogany bassoon
materialises into the drying air.
(Did I mention you played the bassoon?)
Your breath mingles with reed and pipework
and it resonates through me
and my Rhythm
becomes its Rhythm
becomes your Rhythm.
Jolts, jerks and spasms are regulated into evenness.
And you encase us in an ark
which glides with an even tempo
and swings.
I oscillate with mechanical precision
as regular as a pendulum
and an interval of time escapes.
An interval the length of two dreams.
At the sign of the Hairy Brown Cow
I check my heart.
I feel it thump inside my ribcage
Like Bonham's bass drum.
I fill my lungs to capacity,
gather spittle in the well of my mouth
and Snort.
Then I go.
Hitting the pace of a gallop in four strides;
I hear you whoop with delight;
thrown into the air like it's your Birthday
and you laugh and clap and scream.
I picture the earth rotating faster under my feet.
I am as powerful as Steam.
I feel like a Bulldozer
or a Deltic
or a Tank at the battle of Kursk
or Seabiscuit.
Seabiscuit.