Say what you like about him but my ‘oul man could handle a scythe.
Swing it with the easy grace of a matador in a bullring in Barcelona.
Could turn and pivot, sure of foot, like a lithe ballerina on the stage
at the Bolshoi. The grass, defeated with surgical precision, fell in
complete surrender prostrate beneath him, each cut a perfect arc
of knowing the way. He would spit on his palms, grasp…
You can share this blog post in two ways…
Share this link:
Send it with your computer's email program: Email this