Ca3(PO4)2: the Teller has a flash memory

The Teller has a flash memory . . .
He was a young boy and whole.  His life was complete and the day was picture book hot with the bluest of French blue skies, the greenest of saxen grass and groaning trees were fat with moisture after abundant rain.  The sun shone yellow and white with red mixed together on a palette then applied with a tender brush to the delicate edges of the girl’s lips and . . .

In that beaming meadow
by a shadowy brook
I dreamed a wingéd smile
a sudden nature
a breezy motion
of sage grass and daisies
rocking in undiscovered earth
in lazy love
in glory heat
to that potent phial
her skin, undiscovered
came to me unblessed.


© Rivenrod 2012


    1. Us lads, we all have a favourite field, once ploughed. Actually it’s the strongest metaphor and an indication of where the story is going.

      My girl was called Mary and she possessed a pre Raphaelite beauty, so rare.



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