waterland

October 21, 2015 § 13 Comments

385bb3b2dd394312f81f34d5a5c65fd3

On the shortest day the rain came. It flung itself at the valley and blackened the earth. The old woman watched the river burst and seep up the brick path into her garden – her breathing too quick, too thin. Worms drifted, torpid and white, bees floated on their backs spinning dizzy like coracles. The violence mocked and hid the sun, numbing her senses like a mantra. She saw she was trapped, so her spirit quietened, and giving in, she turned in on herself and ceased to see.

Her energy stripped bare, her body slowed. Taking blankets, she made a nest upstairs and surrounded herself with books and warming soup. She imagined she was wearing the thick fur of a dormouse. Lighting a fire in the hearth, she began to dream. Taking a pen, she wrote of things that no longer mattered – remembered events that could not possibly have taken place. Her consciousness became continuous: day and night fusing seamless. Nothing stopped, and no thing remembered to begin.

There was no brightness to touch or gather on those short grey days. Clouds hung heavy and full, pressing down on her like an unwanted lover. The river meadows became bogs that could swallow her whole, the trees poked out like sentinels, roots holding their breath for a sun forgotten. Rats swam mindless of the farmer’s gun, and swans gathered in loose clumps, wondering. There were no streets, no paths to roam. Only silence.

There was no one to explain, so the woman used her ears and eyes. Opening the long thin window that faced the river, she cocked her head, holding her breath tight in her chest. No birdsong to justify, no swish of wind to condone, no sense of coming or going. Sounds that had always been there – telling all yet demanding nothing – were gone.

And as the waters stirred, she became indifferent, and her being grew light.

~

Fanciful words inspired by ‘The Being Of Nothing’, Samuel Beckett.

Image courtesy the late Edward Seago (1910-1974)

Reblogged from a while back (revised).

sounds

December 5, 2014 § 7 Comments

 

blue-heron-3-peter-gray

quiet of flooded valley…

distant

engines

rumble rush-

 beat of heron’s wing

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo courtesy Dianne Faucette

survival

December 3, 2014 § 7 Comments

Glow_worm_305654931

as

the

flood

subsides

one single glow worm wriggles

in

the

moonlight

~

Image courtesy Wikipedia

not alone

November 29, 2014 § 7 Comments

seiho_takeuchi_willow_trees_on_the_frosty_riverside_c.1904_the_national_musem_of_modern_art_kyoto_400

on

a

leafless

willow

in

the

flooded

valley –

a silent blackbird

~

Image courtesy estate of Seiho Takeuchi

enduring

November 25, 2014 § 4 Comments

floodbeneath the flood

the

river

still

meanders

to the sea

Flood

February 21, 2014 § 8 Comments

tree-in-water-and-fog-1-20111

On the shortest day the rain came – flinging itself at her valley, blackening the earth. Water seeped up the brick path into her garden – last year’s grasses waving aimless as old paddy fields. She watched: her breathing too quick, too thin. Worms drifted, torpid, white, suspended; bees floated on their backs, spinning dizzy like coracles. The violence mocked and hid the stars, numbing her senses like a mantra. Then her spirit quietened, and giving in, she turned in on herself and ceased to see.

Her energy stripped bare, her body slowed. She grew the thick fur of a dormouse. Taking blankets, she made a nest and surrounded herself with books and warming soup. Lighting a fire in the hearth, she began to dream. Taking a pen, she wrote of things that no longer mattered – remembered events that could not possibly have taken place. Her consciousness became continuous: day and night fusing seamless. Nothing stopped, and no thing remembered to begin.

There was no brightness to touch or gather on those short grey days. Clouds hung heavy and full, pressing down on her like an unwanted lover. The river meadows became bogs that would swallow her, her trees poking out like sentinels, roots holding their breath for a sun almost forgotten. Rats swam mindless of the farmer’s gun, and swans gathered in loose clumps, wondering. There were no streets, no paths to roam. Only silence.

There was no one to explain, so she used her ears. Climbing the stairs to open the long thin window that faced the river, she cocked her head, holding her breath tight in her chest. No birdsong to justify, no swish of wind to condone, no sense of coming or going. Sounds that had always been there – telling all yet demanding nothing – were gone.

And as the waters stirred, she became indifferent, and her being grew light.

Inspired by ‘The Being Of Nothing’. Samuel Beckett. Blogged  17th January 2014.

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