november 30 2012 streaming

P1050858last day of november, round moon in the sky, red sunrise frost, clear, find a source near the busy road, cannot control those enclosed cars rushing by us sitting in a closed in, barbed wire, junked pool ,overlooked farm house face, padlock ,more barbed wire – its like a ditch shut off from the business of fields, ivy covered, old animal holes, silted brown bubbles, iron red sourcing, chumped junk, still skim of film, non-reflective or whited out, almost still, ivy tumbled in and unbeaded holly, rack of mushrooms in old tree trunk, backpack shoved against a scrapyard of a source – coldly we let the beauty arrive, cars still flowing  but birds now compete and linger outlined songs jutting into air, feet start to freeze with fingers but sacrifice is worth it

C has stood up to her calves in wellingtons in the glom trying to capture the muck murk two floating leaves face down, hold life and light yellow, waiting for the long sink to leaves coated in mud – see a process I haven’t taken time to see before a leaf falling on a still sheen gradually seeps the water in, lowers and muds, and becomes part of a nest of dulled leaves mulching down to leaf mould ,watered soft mush of pond bottom, this stream hardly moves, it is the freeze, the lip of land hardly falling, lowering, a tea saucer of rain – no it has a vein off, hard to follow in this crimped space hammered in on all sides, now when I look into a field and see on back of trees a frazzled hedge, I will know the possibilities of water- already I am gleaming into this spot, outlined twigs against stark bitter white light, breath surprising me as steam, and I am lifted breath and track myself loving being here early morning recording water in the frost and traffic, this looks like the worst pollution but it might be it orange up from the ground

standing in low mud my feet in wellingtons felt unguarded the one mysteriously soaked, find the slit in the boot, done for now, rubber or whatever plastic it is gone – my socks and tights hold water – not observing but blooded by it! as the sun opens white fields seem whiter and pool more glittering feel slightly sidelined with my uneven foot, seared through its rip, opening to  iced water

notice the modern conservatory looking clear to this scrappy place windows looking at us probably unseeing, who would look at a scrap of scrambled wood, fenced and densed and draggled ,almost a nuisance to the field – find a new place a meeting of 3 waters, bracken still growing among stinging nettles which have lost their bite, against the one patch of moss there is a tiny white feather, fluffy like a flower, cannot find a ready answer to how it arrived where it is, which bird, as sun hits ,beauty unscrabbles this dirt oasis, water sings loud on my left, along the hinge of meeting, baby waterfalls boom out speed

as light jumps up a ceremonial drumming starts in the local barn, I could imagine anyone greeting the sun with a heartbeat, know it must be some farm equipment, chopping, cleaning machinery, less now just odd beats, but job done, sun up, and commuting in laying, laying us down in gratitude and duty. I take to the moss, breath firing goldened eyelashes, nose fuzz, streaked hair glow as toes go,  light through holly looks like water ripples hanging vertical, now as sun moves they are outlined holly again, my breath surprises me as I think it is mist moving down the stream,  a real cock crow as if from a children’s talking book, another low firing, another crow a sigh, falling water crow, stream lined up at the base of my boot straightening off into holly light reflections all the way down, as I begin to cold up I feel the place develop becoming overwhelming, no need for more than a pore in the land, a cup, to recognize the land’s vein traveling, traveling, i am streamed again lunged into reaping the unexplored in my swirling breath at each of my breaths out

we are lying as if sunbathing well we are sunbathing it is on my face , my thighs, I’m glad for clothes though I see how I could melt away into cold, as tips and tops of extruded parts freeze off and leave,  the eye does not feel the cold fortunately impervious to this it takes its time to look, held back by dripping nose and chipped cheeks ,  wood pigeon, truck, gate close, C gives in, surrenders colded and ached to the music of streams, wrapped and warm she lies combe-like and dreaming, patient and perfecting a moulding, to place bones of spine drifting apart, muscles letting go, only the courage of the breath continues like the moving stream unable to stop until it does.

dogs barking now, long cock crows out of time now ,with duck’s scratch- sounds, a livening world- we got here early to feel it,  I wonder at a farmer passing now, would think – two ladies, clothed and booted, lying on the banks of a tiny stream sunbathing in the sun on the last day of november, maybe it happens all the time, armies of women greeting the morning lying beside frozen muddy rivlets of water-  I am charmed by the image, all this lying down and sleeping near the water is the getting up, the waking really, we just forget over and over what fools

breath communion, my common prayer, my dissolve and matter

air, light, ground, water

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