The old brambles here are dull and dark and scratchy, twisting and curving down to find new ground. A home for rabbits: we watch them darting in to safety at the sound of our boots on the soil – vibration sends them back behind those spiked defences.
Soon there’ll be fresh shoots, and pink-tinged leaves. Back home, we battle them, come in scratched and bloodied, wanting tea. Here’s different. Cattle will come in and chew them back – but not these sprawling cages, old and hard – safe haven for the small, soft creatures of the world.
It’s National Weed Appreciation Day (I know!) and obviously we are celebrating at dVerse. Come and join us! The bar opens at 8pm BST, 3pm EDT. I’m so confused about what time it is right now!
I didn’t think I’d miss them – scruffy trees, feathery leaved, sprouting up anywhere, everywhere –
but here we are. The bony wrists poking out of tattered greenery, bare branches knobbled:
old women, I think.
I’d hardly noticed them. How many ash trees soften the skyline? How many?
I see them now. The nakedness, the cold dying, stripped of leaf, of robe, of dignity.
How blind I was. How stupid.
A poem for Sherry at earthweal. She wants us to consider a lonely world. So many trees are dying around us. Horse chestnuts have some kind of virus, ash trees – which define my local lancscape. Even the forestry spruces are being cut down. It’s hard not to notice and wonder what has gone wrong.
Sea has shifted the sand again. Again, we’re strangers here – here, where land meets sea, sea carves and heaps, shapes, shapes that curve and billow, billow like waves themselves, themselves sand. Here it’s new, new as far as the edge of the sea.
Some days I can set myself adrift in space. In time.
I sit, thousands of feet above the sea, watching. I remember wooden triremes, manned by heroes, and fishing smacks. Now there are great ships weighed down by cargo – and white sailboats, and emptiness.
I always loved this thyme-scented, sun-baked place, because of the ocean. When the gods left, I came here for shelter. My sisters hid elsewhere – I used to hear their voices, but now I think I am alone.
Some days, I can raise a hand and see the waves through my skin. Some days I’m solid as the rock I sit on. Some days I hear music. Some days, nothing but my own heart beating. Some days I drift through memories.
I’m too ancient to feel sorrow. The sun on my skin is enough, and the sound of the sea.
Prosery for Merril at dVerse. Our quotation is “In space in time I sit thousands of feet above the sea”, from May Sarton, “Meditation in Sunlight”
Body. All I can think of is paper. So easy to tear, to cut, to burn, and they way it holds everything: joy and death and tax and fairytales.
Guard. 2 a.m., and it won’t get darker, and all I can do is stand vigil, while shadows become monsters and monsters become shadows, and all the night noises are breath, and footsteps, and the weight of it. The weight.
Bodyguard. Not the big guy in the suit, or the woman with the gun. None of them. It’s only love that matters, that takes the bullet, that bears the pain, that steps up and holds you. Only love.