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.