From beyond and from the other side of the bank, where the grass grows on clumps of edible moss. Standing with straws hanging off lips cut from the sun and brown from the dirt. Sucking seers with dilation in their eyes and corn in their ears. Prescience is in the air and there is only one thing left to lose: the future.
Breathing deep the fumes of the rotting and the scent of yesterday clinging desperately to their nostril hairs. Spit and cud gather at the jowls, drooling with an essence only bile knows. Richly wild with the flavours of the sting, mint leaves will never be enough.
Far into the headwind and the whistling grass cuts a fine tune. Makes the brittle wishes finer in detail, the course edge leaving all warmth a vapour. Seers suck hard and behind the veil, a vague blanket of exhalations from the ant mounds, smelling only of rain and giving no further clues to anything.
Written on Wednesday, 23 May 2007