Wayland Seed-jars

sproutings
hearing bird song
proposal connections
anchoring the green woodpecker
index

anyway the day is grey the forecast is april-like
the signs are cool, clear, calm, dry, overcast
tiny-peeking-brightstar.

Position again unsettled
landscape barren yet fertile
well rotted compost
crumbly friable soil awaits
rain and seed
seeking new growth,
new species,
awaiting glimmer of explorer
collector
sunlight between finger-shadows
across the keyboard.

Standing on the high place witnessing
vast expanse,
inviting.
Hitching a ride on a cloudy idea
woven from a thousand dreamless nights
sleepily descending to earth with an unapologetic plop.
Wondering where for a second
unfolding memory
noting that the key seems to have slipped over the page.
Somehow it feels unnecessary to turn the page as the strangeness now has become familiar and an at-home-ness smiles unexpectedly from ear to ear. This newly unfolded life lays before me with ridges and furrows of expectation. Excitedly I scan the
land markers
waylanders
way-markers
slippage and sliding in meaning
vitrines of experience. 

Marked catalogued stored in some warehouse of indeterminate size and connection with the earth
the land
the dirt
the shiny glass lifts me up to the mummified remains of childhood
walking home across the brook in shoes
squelching home across fields
and fields
and fields
of the new-town
of awakening adolescence.
greened with the grass of journey,
warmed by the sun of the outdoor baths
hopening to the the love of otherness
falling in love with life and the joy of being in the world…
still connected by the musty odour of snuggling
closeness to the source
unknown at the time
but carried within the brain.