I was almost leaping, bounding through

the deepest meadow since '93, not even caring

when the thistles came up to greet me,

or when spiders were poised to attack.

I wasn't happy, though, simply content

with capturing crickets behind

shutters, even getting a bit too close to them.

The way the hills rose in great, colourful mounds 

made me swoon and remember,

then remembering to swoon

over Fishers Lane,

over dimly lit sparklers over fine cushions 

which held my every infantile dream.

I would only stop day-dreaming

to nod at the passing hearses,

look to the barren patches where trees once stood,

and laugh at the contrasts between us.

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