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| Sorolla - The Siesta |
When we lay there, our bodies were grass,
a sea of meadow, the sweep of wind carrying
us along, flowers of rye. We, the droning
bumble bees in buttercups; we, the chirruping
finches, chomping cattle; darting suddenly
within briary hedgerows, rustlings, commotions
and hunters’ silences; and only vaguely conscious
of the faraway cataracts of traffic.
How sumptuous the flow of light and warmth;
how sinuous our bodies in that current,
the colours of the field embroidering our bodies.
We, agglomerations of the soil; we, the criss-crossing
zeniths of nerve and muscle: the fields risen on legs
now part of the swathes of breeze-blown beauty,
settled, nested into our finest belonging.
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