Sunday, November 25, 2012

Loam, fields behind village of Mons

There are hunters everywhere.

Old men in fluorescent vests stand on little platforms circling a tiny wood.
They outnumber everything, there are only men, it is seedy like a peepshow.
I run on, I am on a plateau.

In this region the farmers fields have no hedgerow or border. The field comes right up to the road. I pass a freshly tilled field, great slabs of rich fertile soil.
It feels good, I half remember being a child in a portable cabin classroom. (Someone had burnt down the school the summer before) I am drawing a diagram in science, the word I am looking for, the word for this is Loam.