The solar plexus

The solar plexus is a stretch of skin that covers the soul.
It sits below the heart and above the belly.
Lean back in the yellow, bucket -bottomed plastic chair below the arbour of violet, frost-paled wisteria.
And let the sun in.
The elderly horses tail-whisk in the back field.
Dogs bark at horse-flies and passing cars.
The cat warms its arse by the arga's steady fire.
Smell the heady hops and cut crops.
Watch the soft red of your eye lids.
Feather-flashing, rainbow chickens chatter in the corn, sifting with split claws.
The kiln grumbles, its belly-full of fire and skilfully shaped, silken clay.
Chipped soap-sud, grey, aristocratic crockery balances on the side of the sink. Cracked, rose ringed and dusted with crumbs of lemon sponge.
Beside the expanse of white embroidered bed sits a cut glass perfume bottle. Daps of oily sweet amber for the night only.
Sit back and let the sun in.
Lift your top.
And stroke your belly with clay roughened hands.
The blanching weight of light and heat is the wealth of natural health you are taking in.
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