January 1, 2018 § 6 Comments
According to eldest daughter…
- Mud splattered everywhere – even on bedroom ceiling
- Barking. Anytime – especially at night when wants to play
- No room for humans on sofas anymore
- Chronic feeling of guilt when goes out without doggo
- Doggo likes burping in face when feeling full and cheerful
- Stinky ass farts (not my words, mind), when particularly full and even more cheerful
- Paw marks on bed sheets. Bits and bobs under duvet that couldn’t have got there by themselves, like interesting twigs, pre historic sparrow corpse, rotting tennis ball
- Recurrent teenage behaviour, eg. not listening, falling in river, getting stuck down rabbit holes. Has to be rescued so can do it again
- No Christmas decorations this year. Mysteriously all chewed up
October 30, 2017 § 12 Comments
That place where a month ago the swallows suddenly left and my brother died. That place where my green valley became a swirling mist and the slow river grew a blanket over itself.
The heron hides.
That place where the bees burrow into the dry moss and I shake out the winter duvet.
I am collecting apples. Wrapping each one in newspaper and storing them in wooden boxes.
I sweep leaves into hills for the hedgehogs.
In the woods the birds still sing. They start early, flittering. After midday the twilight comes quickly and I think only autumn thoughts as I kick through the leaves and turn my face towards that grey cloud that I know will pass.
October 7, 2017 § 13 Comments
How I feel when I breathe in that smell of rain-soaked earth.
When I drink too much and my voice comes out too loud.
When I touch my father’s false teeth.
When my mother’s eyes flickered open and stared at me the moment before she died.
When I close the door of my studio and think I’ll never paint again.
The warm lick of my daughter’s dog.
That silence in the middle of a conversation which I always want to fill and wish I didn’t.
When I regret I am in love.
When I get away with a small white lie.
When I have my hair cut and get bored listening to the gossip.
When the doorbell rings, or the phone, and I don’t feel like answering it.
When I don’t look forward to him coming home, because although I love him dearly I want to be by myself.
When I dream of my dead brother and we smile at one another and I know he’s not really gone at all. I just can’t see him.
And when a poem comes and I don’t have a pencil, so I race home holding it tight before I lose it. Sometimes it’s too fast and slippery and it escapes.
How I feel.
Image of ‘Christina’s World’ courtesy the estate of Andrew Wyeth