...summertime...
...everybody knows it,
she said...
... knows that I talk
to myself...
and
...that’s ok, no one
minds...
...is how I like it,
it is...
...the older I get and
the more my life is taken over by my memories by talking to myself about them I
am transformed, turn back the clock I do, and bring them back to life ...
...and then the other
one talks back to me and we understand one another...
...it has been a long,
hot summer. The sun a white-hot disc in the sky too bright to look at...left images
of green and magenta suns floating behind closed, tired lids...the disc burned
and faded the lush green of spring
grass to ash gold and singed the leaves from the trees.
...after the winter we
had, she said, I rejoice in the warmth of the sun...
...yes, I answered,
just look at the fruit and the berries...
...it will be a hard
winter this year, she fortold...
...you think so?...
...I do...
...what makes you
think that?...
...is what the natives
say...Indians...
...Indians?...
...American...
...learn from the
land, it tells you what’s ahead and it tells you from the past...you have to
learn to listen to the earth, she talks, the same as we...you only have to
listen...
and
then the wind changed,
came gently at first from the west and brought with it the song of the sea.
Wispy clouds swirling, following
the pattern of the land in the sky and you could hear gulls crying in tune with
the ocean, hanging, gliding as if time stood still...their piecing cry to show
that time moved on...
...she longed for the
rain but it did not happen for her even though the sky was the colour of slate
and, a little ill content, she watched the ruby fireball sink into the sea...
and
then she heard
it...the first heavy drop on the glass roof above her and then the second and
as the sound steadied the parched earth embraced clouds’ gift and breathed
again...she smelled the earth . She smelled the coming of autumn...
She was alone and her
bare feet felt the harsh ash golden grass beneath. She lifted her face towards
heaven and the rain ran gently over her hair and over her brow, over her naked body...she stood quite
still and wondered how it would be when she was old...
...how will it be when
I am old, she asked the night, will I feel the rain on my breasts and my belly,
my shoulders and back and the grass still warm from the burning sun over the
last few days? ...
...what a pity this
moment will pass,
what a shame that it
cannot last,
will hold it forever
and
the grass will grow
cold...
and
the soles of my feet
will remember
a moment so precious
to hold
the ash golden meadow
with meadowsweet and
purple clover,
this moment will never
be over,
etched into my heart,
into my being,
all seeing,
the earth answering
the sky above
clouds fleeing the
dark to the light ...
my soul is singing
with the sound
of the earth and the
sky in the night...
...how will it be when
I’m old she asked the sky...
...it will be as it
is, is what I answered her...
...and though my eyes
are clouded now, I still see the setting ruby sun, I see the fields of gold. I
see the woman standing, still, as in a baptism, a joining of what must be
joined, so the autumn might come for the winter to follow, I see her being one
with the earth and the ocean’s song and the song of the rain....
...I talk to myself...
...always have...
and
...I see memories
etched into time...
...and looking in
between what is and what might be...
...earth’s rhyme and
her rhythm’s there for all to see...
...I talk to myself...
...they know it and...
...say it’s a shame...
...she was one of a
kind...
...no harm there to
find...
...and no one did mind...
...it’s just how I
like it, I tell her...it’s just how it is...
