in the south of england, insects are mere little things. they brush your shoulder or clip the very tip of your ears. but they never harm you. they never creep upon you. they keep their eight legs to themselves. stick to blades of grass or the grooves of wooden gates. it is only flowers that they press their heaviness into . it is only velvet petals they sink their tiny teeth in deep.
everything here is gentle and forgiving and kind. the air hangs in soft blankets. it covers windshields and forrest in damp love. it pools in murk coloured heartbreak. deers drink it and their guts become cold little oceans of precipitation. it makes their lashes grow long. it causes their eyes to never fade. even in death you can see the wet seep out and coat their fur. the ones that live longest, their antlers are wallpapered in moss from all the rain water they drank.
in the south of england, every heart beat sounds like it does when children plug their noses and hold their breathe in the bath. everything looks like the 7 seconds they open their eyes from below the tap. everything is out of focus and bathroom ceiling coloured. life is contained and safe. it is coaxed into warmth but naturally grows cold. it requires sweaters and patience and a good job. it asks only for a few souls to require only the sweater and write good shit in absence of the rest.
in the south of england, insects are mere little things.
it is the rest of the world that feels the sting.
the little bukowski