On a steep incline the houses seem to pour down the earth. Then they repeat again, from decline to peak; my bicycle takes me round and round and round. The sensation of sliding, as if to some inevitable conclusion.
How those rooftops roll
And the bike must be cycled. And the houses must be homes (must they?) I am taken by them, and through them.
And it all comes down to this; it comes down to earth, to the soil that stains the nails that till it. Tilled by history, even by stories unknown. Prepared for the grass that grows in my spring, for the mud that takes over shortly after, for the intertwined nettles and roots of unforgiving weeds and the oldest tree in the orchard.
Pour into me
Myself as land; a murmuration flutters overhead and into winter. Look: the doors of the homes on the hill welcome and expel.
Around the maypole, events intertwine and tighten around my core.
The souls of the dead, who dance, and sing:
Here we come a wassailing
Among the leaves so green
transition through the seasons, as if elements or personalities which dictate where it all ends. I pay my respects to not knowing how it must be.