Meet Me At St Louis
“You are in my dreams again.” The words fell from his lips as he opened his eyes to another night, rising he looked at the empty bed “but you are not here.” A glance around before leaving, his eyes resting on the game uncompleted and remains that stay with him. The low dwelling is hidden from eyes, he seemingly lopes out of the low fog carrying an axe. The early evening is spent dragging dry fallen trees to high ground, then the business of cutting the logs, the song of the wet stone on the blade sings across the water and is answered by the sweet smell of perfume on the light mist that swirls in the gentle breeze.
He pauses before setting the stone on his seat of a stump, the first is set to fall, his work falls into a rhythm, the sounds of the swamp around him forming the music around his beat and he bends his back into it. There is release is such a task he knows, the rhythm is all, the body detached from the mind and yet the mind is not free to think, it stills to the body’s demands. Unable to sweat anymore his shirt moulds to his body with the humid air due to his movement in the air, he looks up after the stroke of sixty and speaks with a low growl to the breeze, “Haven’t I bled enough for you?”“Oh sweetling, the dust has settled from those wounds, come back to court once more my warrior.” The man pauses briefly at the low haunting words whispered from the wind, then swinging the axe high he cracks the log into two with one blow, “No more, I told you before.” As another log is struck by the axe, the wind sighs and the breeze gently caresses the man as he stacks the kindling into piles. He moves hiding some of the work in several places before taking a longer route back to his dwelling, the room is untouched since he left but he can’t stop himself from checking, scenting the air as a hound would he settled onto his hunches in the doorway checking the ground and finally his bed, cold and only his imprint.