Blue Bell Woods

The real me.
The entwined one.
The fur around bone.
I told myself i couldn't quite write about saturday.
The distraction of being in that wood was how i'd word it.

Smile, by David Gilmour.
Motionless, the small group of strangers and like beside me. And i stood in front of the white cross on the floor. The pile of dust in the shape of something holy. At it's meeting point, a yellow rose lay.
You were so small.
And your brother led here just a few years before, in a similar fashion, and i wondered if he had been a similar size.
My eyes were dry, and my throat large for other reasons.
As your radio played on the bench behind you,
A wind threw itself in a curve, around these frail trees.
Thin, yet standing tall, they leapt and curved suddenly, so violently from the still that was, as we entered the woods by the sheep.

I looked back down to you,
I felt my hair curl round with this tune.
It was there i decided that the reason you were so small, was because the swelling of your body was only ever the illness you were induced with..
And that had left you at death.

I tried to stop thinking. But it didn't scare me that day.
Liquids and cancers and laying in the sun.
Funnily enough, as the sun led across the path, you were all but covered in it,
as you always were.
And as you always did,
A glow shon up, and you were so aparent, that as i left the wood, down the path, i turned back once, with my numb neck, to see you sitting so proudly and clearly.

The trees sat in lines, that rolled down the hill this small wood sat upon. Halfway up.
Though the ground was mostly brown, yellow, green and hoof-shaped...
The darts of blue and purple were shooting.
As were four guns upward to the sky.
Just as you had dreamed, the photo by your second to last bed...

Oh and, guess what!
This time, i saw a deer. A tender, shy little deer, she darted between the trees before us, so quick it may have only been I who had seen her.
Your words echoed in my head then, from months ago,
If we're ever so quiet, we may see one...

As we stood beside you, when the holy things were done.
I looked back up the path to return, and a smoke of white shon past.

How could it have been raining every where else, but so warm in this patch of wood.

I looked further down the path, as the music played, as we stood.
Or
as they stood,
and I swayed.
I glanced as far down to where the path dipped down with the hill, out of sight nor feet.
And i saw you smiling. Tittering off and waving back, blowing kisses off weakened hands, your brother and dogs already out of sight, but you in tow..

I don't feel like any thing has finished, though the entirety of what was your physicality has left now. And again, my doll, i don't know how to write.

So the scent of garlic at the gate and the reflection of spine-like trees on the bonnet of your old car and i left.