With my fingerly hands with ten fingers, I, the wealdwife, type.
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Day 10: Ointment, Unguent, Butter
Ice, pine resin and holly-berry juice on your hands. Here's a balm to soothe the cuts, heal frost damage. The sun slips into muddy earth. It heats the heart, which you and I can't see. Though it's cold on the surface there's warmth beneath; the first bulbs are rising from it. The nights are long because the sun is heating everything from within. Push your fingers into the ground. When you pull them out they'll be red.
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.