ELEANOR COOKE

The Yellow Spring Days and days and days again, the man awakes and leaves his home, walks down the road, into the field to listen to the crickets sing.

He falls into the drenched grass, the spring dew soaks his jumper through, the coppery taste left in his mouth as he eats dandelions by the roots.

He scrabbles to stand upright, with mud covering his hands and knees his bare feet slip on the ground, since he left his clogs behind.

He takes off his dirt-splattered sweater, and leaves it on the wooden fence; into the forest, he hikes and climbs and goes to the yellow spring.

Under the pounding water, the man drags his hand to the sky, he flails in his panic to breathe and kicks at empty space.

The man breaks the surface, lungs spasming in vain; he crawls up onto the grassy bank in a vague attempt to slip away.