Wearing boxing gloves and singing hearts and flowers


The rain ended out there half an hour ago, but under these trees it still falls, paressing the full belly like melting dripping on a hot white roll. The sky is darkening. The only moons to be seen are the two blue that hang under eye; limpen forms tangled in a silken rope tied to a root in the furrow atop the brow. Over the ridge Vulcan circles the craters, gloaming about the magma spits. That was then.

Now the sky is black. In the space in between we crossed heath and village green. Out West they danced macabre: a top hat of dead bird's wing, a goat's femured cane. Down South the beasts wrought revenge. Mr Badger's corpse lay in resplendent decay in Coldrum, his scrumpled monocle catching the last of the Kentish light, as the red faced farmer snuggled his piglets and served his betroughed for the Sunday roast.

Oftentimes things can become confused; not least when you speak one language and the other, another. 

Out West, West of my West, they speak in blue skies and sunshine, with occasional rain. The Sun is there when it's supposed to be there and the fog softens the blow when you fall from the wrong side of bed. Round my way it's rain and showers, cold baths and a windy slap, and when it's sunny we burn; a hat for the Sun, a parasol for the rain and you're good to go. If you see a fellow in a fine hat, best slip off the goloshes and leave your fortune at the door. West of West they see the parasol and think it's an umbrella. 

Back to the scene and they're drunk on honey wine. The cowardly thief fears the tree and lies on the damp orchard grass, mouth agape, waiting for the fruit to hit the belly.

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