With my fingerly hands with ten fingers, I, the wealdwife, type.
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Day 27: Five Blessings
A morning in the garden, cutting back last season's herbaceous plants and chopping brambles; one of the serene days between Christmas and New Year when there's nothing pressing and you can drift from breakfast to bedtime. The air was mild and full of early spring and bird song. I watched Hellebore zip up and down the maple tree, and pounce on the soil from a plant pot I'd just emptied. When I came inside Samuel was curled on the bed, sleeping off another late night.
Turn these pages with care: the page you have passed buries its readers. We stand in its doorways, lie in its beds, our spines pressed, stems browning. Turn carefully: roll onto your mate. The pages shut you together. The years are passing; your bends end in seizures, in creases and groans. Watch your hips. Turn with care: see other homes, other inhabitants stroking the paper as you stroke your sheets, the weft of a carpet, the relief of a carving - three men drinking beer in an inn while the forest looks on, clothing the tables in the shadows of trees.