Picture by Florin Beudean on Unsplash
Hallowed summer morning with the wild grass whispering under the touch of a gentle breeze. Rye grass and foxtail, Yorkshire fog and false oat sing to the meadowsweet and purple loosestrife, its hypnotic, lilting sway caressing the air, sending sweet fragrance over the heads of straggling brambles and yellow, scattered ragwort.
Nocturnal and early morning souls leave their trails wisping through the swaying stalks, marking the world that is theirs not ours. Perhaps a skulk of foxes, their cubs joyously careering beneath a world whispering the song that humans have forgotten to hear; or a colony of rabbits, their world ordered by the arching stems beneath a starlit heaven, their shadows hidden from a darker, crueller swooping night.
Child... I touched the earth, rolling through sunlight soaked fields, hidden under a seedling sky; my exuberant oneness with the lazy world, as much a part of the wild tapestry as that of creeping trails cut stealthily in the dusk.
I wish I could have stayed in those singing weeds, howling at the moon, a glory alive with miniature gods.
© Jack Leonard 2021