the chaser

Losing control in the run downhill. Legs past muscle control into marionette mechanical motion. It is flying . Those airborne moments between bones locking under cartilage cap to jolt the limb into revolution .

Again and ...

  wind catches the

  dandelion clock once

  me or not

again

My hopes want to make dreams of the pell-mell because my heart wants to catch you before we reach the bottom. The swell of early summer dried the perennial flowering. Prettied the ground hard but only a fingernail deep. A heaved sigh as your white shoes scratched that starting line and on the one of three you took a lead.

The me at the top wishes ..

I had worn a helmet . Hard hats at least ( soft hearts so the song I made up goes). The beat of your feet responded in my chest, filled my ears and, cheeks to colour of the poppies. Crushed in all that dust kicked up and some flowers buried, early.

The me at the bottom ...

let us hope for the best. Arms and legs entangled to capture us long enough for the fairy seeds to plant themselves

  the wind lifts

  a field of flowers

  strong or light