The Meadows [original Poem by Marie-Belle O'Halloran - 2012]

The Meadows

Risen from a semi-slumber,
I cup my hands under dying embers and
quickly
I crush them against the hot green glass bottle.

Empty flakes of white and grey
I drop . . . into his locks-
Massage into his scalp and
face.

The brightest star basks,
but competes with the fencing forest
rusulting in
a tint of the forest floor.

His eyes are closed,
dreaming
but wide awake.

My bare feet
soak up the heat that remains
within the furnace of dead
and dismal blades and weeds.
Yellow, black, and umber tones.

And so I dip my toes with cherry toppings
in the half hot ash and cinders.
Paddle as would a child in water.
Dots of dust settle on skin.
Cool grey powdered soles and ankles . . .
I crook my head low at an angle-
wash my face in fires remnants.

Then we dance along against the grain where
Romanian rhymes and riddles slither-
rippling on the rolling river and
vibrations pop the bubbles on its glassy film
as we dodge the ring-ding-blings that pass on the path.