Thursday, 29 April 2010
Flutterings and scrapings
I am moving to last year's pigeon nest, the one that sits empty in the tree outside my window. It has been my husband's springtime fever and my listlessness during the day, and at night his slow sleeping breathing while my mind races through long stretches of brambly thoughts, though sometimes to still pools of ideas. It is impossible though, everything is made of nothing. The uncertainty of where we'll go means that everything I touch is filled with doubt. Only beginnings are assured.
If I could slip out of here into that sky though, for a while, for the month of May maybe...
...to lie in lilacs...
...and make the chimneys and the branches my landscape, instead of tired old streets.
So I could be close and still far away. Like the thrush who watches through the window some days. Like the birds that made their nest in the ivy last year... who lived inside their arch-roofed palace of green, at once so big and so small, so close by and almost unseen.