I sing the body eclectic.
By the streaming weir a man with a pole pulls a curving eel from the
waters, cooks it on a fire made from wood taken from the riverside.
On Cleeve Hill a young girl fights a spirited horse, bends its foam
flecked head to her will.
Their bodies and the land and the land and their bodies.
On a pollen hazed village green men play cricket to a background hum of
womenfolk talking passionately.
In the Town Hall a string quartet bows feverishly a corner of tongue
poking out in determined concentration.
Their bodies and the land and the land and their bodies.
On Leckhampton a hiker tests his sinew against the grade of the old
tramway, sweat standing like dew on his forehead as he rests his
back against rough limestone.
The crowd jumps and stamps and beats out the rhythm and the park roars out
the tune until the very grass bends in time with it.
It is a great song and I, to, will sing it,
I sing the body eclectic.