By Jack Andrew Cribb

Start in the cold of the backseat,
a mellow kaleidoscopic Sun flickering between the trees,
eventually birthed out of the metal
into the grass and soil

covering the souls of your feet,
the dirt like your young skin,
moving and growing.

The wood of the cabin resembles
the wood of your youth,
strong and old and alive.

We drink Mate flavoured with ginger
and dance in the dusk,
amongst flowers and empty wine bottles,

basslines rip through the meadow,
you take my hand,
pull me down the hill

we take out clothes off rapidly
in the everlasting summer light,
our nakedness clothing us in joy

I shed my damn English sensibility,
join you in the steam,
sweet sweat dripping from chests,

my sicknesses melt away.

Recovering in the freeze of the lake,
the mud from the bed caking my face,
as loved and as naked as the day we were born.


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