What it is
It is lemon light tilting past lime-green leaves;
aromas of cut grass, hawthorn, and warm gorse;
elderflower wine shoaling brightly round gums, then bursting sharp and sweet;
the high-pitched tinkling of newly-washed hair;
faint fluty notes on the wind.
It is gently buoyant curls on nape;
a lilting ski-jump of a nose;
feet and brows tending towards arching;
arms floating up and out, unbidden.
It is a lightening under the sternum,
soft breath lifting and sinking through fontanelle,
and an inner shifting, settling, down to earth.
A level kind of readiness.
And then there is a lengthening
and a s o a r i n g about it, like leaping off a swing mid-flight;
a reaching about it
and a welcome:
the redly spreading grin of dawn,
or the frank smile of the new moon.