June 15, 2014

Not your playground

This is will hopefully become a poem one day. Today it is shinny cars in our scrubby Glen. The same parking spots, the weather the seasons our flesh growing but the words the things they did the roles we were told to play never changed. Stopped calling out to the farmer unless it was really bad. He helped us. After years of putting his head down and passing by, after those times when he tried and failed.  Up the track from our house. Behind the big barn, by the side where there track split.

Our mind changed though way more than the land the weather the fashions of the rich and the gagging to be rich.

"Your whole country is my playground."

We were staring, examining and poking about at the words through the usuals for days.  Sometimes this guy talked nice. I was getting older though the wrong side if 4 for our questions had stopped being cute for most.

He said a bunch of words we couldn't understand and we were not convinced that he did either. Explaining why guys like that are guys like that. Then in his softest radio voice and close to my ear and the back seat. I could see the fence behind our chicken coop.  

"Scotland's not his playground. You are"