Month of hares and haring, fleeing on fleeted foot, hills to roll down, arse over daisy chain, hurrah!
Wasabi gin/belle and sebastian.
Bare feet, scuffed knees, grass stains spilling like birth marks, scabs. Beaded schoolyard scabs ripe for picking. Grit beneath your fingernails. The smell in your scalp of the marshes: soil, reeds and wireless static. I want to run my fingers through your hair. I want to take to the railway lines and start sprinting after trains.
Let’s cast off the couch and lose our knickers in the hedgerows. Let’s cast off rosemary and thyme and tip our caps to coriander. Jalapeño. Tildes.
Let’s call up Judy and stirrup a steer. We can be cowgirls, lassoing the sunset with our Marlboro smoke rings. We can gallop.
I want to be the one walking the street from morning to night. Running past bus stops. Hearing my bare soles wallop on the tarmac. Paying no heed to buggies, roaring past, feeling the city spin its head and pare its eyelids back.
Maybe when you get older every winter gets longer. Maybe it’s this city or maybe it’s me or maybe I was just lost to another happiness and forgot to scale the soft hands from my skin. Maybe it’s all the crud that builds up on the crust of the universe if you forget to keep darting like espresso and mayflies. Maybe there just weren’t enough mushrooms.
Whatever. First sign of sun, first swallow of summer. Let’s step onto the doorstep and gulp.