Mango and burnt orange swathe
a ruddy glow amongst the clouds
of dusk–
with hands folded, hammocking his head,
he lays in the goldenrod and breathes
the pollen of peasant bees, their nine-to-five.
A smile inches across his face–
the watch he removed ticks on and on in his pocket,
the minute hand on it’s fourth lap;
he can’t feel it passing.

The knoll’s grass is lengthy and swaying in
the gust of evening.
He sits up, his clothes a squalor
and peers deep at the retreating sun.
Poplar trees stand sentry, lacklustre, soldiers
throughout the field, there is only eleven–
all but one are losing their hair.

He rises and wanders, his mind producing dreams of
his younger years–when his shoes were
too small for his feet
and his ambition too grand for his street; with
his bicycle a carrier of innocence and future.
He longs for those days
when a girl’s smile meant less than heartache
and he could
feel the rain without getting wet.

But like the dimming golden clouds
dispersing above him,
so too does this reverie subside.

-B.W. Gladney


6 thoughts on “Weaver

  1. Dreamweaver methinks. Languid pace and tiny details in this piece Brett – I could picture the scene and its movement the whole way through. Lovely metaphors of aging. Bravo.

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