With my fingerly hands with ten fingers, I, the wealdwife, type.
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
Day 7: Lions, Tigers, Bears
I went out hunting for a poem, taking my notebook and pen. Outside the northwest wind growled in branches, ripping leaves from trees. I watched a herd of leaves scurrying to the roadside. Clouds drew stripes in the sky; my ears stung and I wished I had a full pelt of fur to cover my face and keep me warm.
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.