The solar plexus

The solar plexus is in the very centre of your being.
Below the heart and above the belly.
It is a stretch of skin that covers the soul.
When the sun's out remember to let it in.
Sit in a yellow, bucket-bottomed plastic chair below an arbour of violet, frost-burnt wisteria.
The chickens are chattering in corn husks. Scratching with split claws. They're rainbowed feathers flashing above the dust.
Elderly horses tail-whisk in the back field.
Aristocratic crockery balances on the sink. Chipped soap suds greying white and marked by the potter's signature, ringed with cottage roses.
The arga's flames warm the cat's arse.
Beside the embroidered white of the plump bed sits the jar of perfume. Worn at night.
The dog's barking at horse flies and passing cars.
The kiln's grumbling, it's belly full of fire and skillfully sculpted silken clay.
Smell the end of malty hops and the cut crops.
Pull your long top up and let the sun in.
Rest your head back shut your eyes and watch soft red.
Moving projections float and fade.
Lift your mind to the blanch of weighted light.
Rub your belly with busy hands.
Harvest it.
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