It is necessary every once in a while to escape from the oppressive closeness of the city; to take a bus away from the city to a small village up on the moors' edge from where I can walk up into the hills where there is no roar of traffic but the rippling of a stream Though the city is but a mere bus ride away it could be a million miles for here is not the solitude of the city, which is loneliness, but the solitude of the country, which is freedom.
I take a rag and wipe away the dust. The leather’s dry. I rub in saddle soap in swirls from swell to cantle. Touch of rust on metal. Scuffs and wear marks. Heels and rope
and smell of horse long gone – those canters, leaning with the stride of Molly-black mare. But a girl grows up, away
from horses; keeps the saddle for awhile. It’s time to clear out memories and space. I wonder what this old brown leather’s worth. I take a rag and wipe away the dust.
I had to light your joint you were shaking that much; fingers that started with pins 'n' needles had now lost grip on cups, cutlery, job and dignity; no matter how high you got you never left the rock bottom of wife in another's bed, children now with parents.
I wheeled you outside to sunshine, the looming shadow of nursing homes. Darkness leaked, soaked your jeans crotch, as you inhaled, coughed, caused blackbirds to rise and speckle blue sky.........
How could one not crave the kind of truth that makes trust skip a beat and fall amidst wisteria storms when the rageful season swarms and sneers, shamelessly infesting the senses?