The Ground Rose

Rupert Loydell
ISSUE 2006-1
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The Ground Rose The ground rose and twisted. I realised I had fallen. The ground rose grows horizontal and awkward, scuffs the broken earth and pricks the air. The horizon’s grey and undefined, smears of dark stain the road; there's either a cloud or heavy snowfall to the left. I realise I have fallen into the trap of description. The ground rose, my horizon line slipped. World’s out of its frame and rotated; that tree should be allowed to grow. I cannot climb through the hedge or get the paint off my fingers. What if a car should come or this picture be real life all angled wrong? There is always room for the beloved. The view from down here is superb.