David Abbott

Call back

A golden curtaine of afternoon sloshes over the trees projecting them onto the hill in front of me like long figures looking into a well. The dog's back legs work in unison and crank like a winding-handle. Where there was a small pond there is now a bigger pond. Grass under water, field clover. Blackbird in the orange oak. Orange plastic bag caught in the upper branches of the wood. How are you? I did not see you this week. Thusly, we move on. The year goes on a-pace. Here comes December, ripe with lebkuchen and dancing santas. Here comes the tiny body of Christ, the old hymns and modern. Let me get the orange, wrap it with the red ribbon, skewer the small sweets and raisins. Can you smell my burning hair? The family tells the story, but I only remember the cavernous flint built church and someone blowing on my head. Did I apologise that my hair was on fire? Here comes the calendars, the meats. There goes the dog in wide circles, slowed by nothing so insubstantial as brambles. She runs into a field of cows, I call her back. They raise their heads steadily. I call her back. Where is she? She returns on the thirde calling. Slivers of plainsong from the pond. The hillside plumpe with greene. Do you miss me? I miss you. Lacking an easy routine, not quite bedded into the new one. Eras of time defined by paths taken. No time like the past.

November 24, 2022

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