Lima bean farms are good places to forget a dream. They grow shin-length. Just tall enough to ignore, but still definite, unmistakable. The soil is damp, fed by tin planes and farmer pilots who take pride in their acres. A family of worms have their brunch while buzzards circle in line. Waiting and pointing out the roadkill doe that stumbled here last night. If I keep walking towards my father's bloodstained Ford pickup, she'll be there. Eyes glistening and dead, aware of our harvest-green property.
And the farm endured seven fields to forty acres the days of my father saw grass and crops rotate his toiling obsession now spent gave way to a bigger scale
the old house storeyed by one and a half the bedroom where I slept in the shadow of an older brother
the roof of grey slate the peak of my world reached my childhood sky
the overgrown garden the consequence of labours elsewhere the sycamore tree my view of a world outside the patch of monkshood remained where I trapped bees in a jar the fuchsia bush with flowers to pick and **** nectar from within
the old dirt track road the start of a jouney far beyond the realm of a farm and the dreams of a boy