Taxidermy
The end of the year. What a year it has been as well. I'm sitting here, post Christmas. It's been a beautiful quiet one. After the celebrations of the solstice, the kitchen took a break and we decamped to Donegal. Being in the house raise so many memories again for me. More than anything i want to be by the sea once again. A beach i've never been on, with a wind i've never felt blowing through my transparent soul. I want to see the gannets dive fierce into the waters and the cormorants hug the far away horizon. I want to watch the sand lift and blow over the sand, a thin veil, ghostlike in its movements. The seaweed wash up along the water's edge, combing the water through its fronds, displaying strange letters which only mermaids can read. Splayed out against the low grey skies, clouds as wild and wonton as my poetry could be. I want to feel my feet numb in the cold cold waters. Have a warm shawl tugged around me, comforting. know there is a fire burning somewhere which i will walk to. Know that there is someone waiting for me to return. Know that upon my return that they will have a smile. A mug of chocolate. That my sons will be there, laughing as they come running to hug me. teasing my cold cheeks with their warm hands. Knowing that i've had all this before. And i will have it again. Knowing that all this longing was made flesh. That i must never be greedy. That what was was enough.
To draw. To play the piano. to run. To be drunk. To listen to music. To cry at the Lacrimossa. To feel a tugging and wishing. to not have to compromise. To be a girl once again. And to know that it is all a dream. It is the dream i had when i was a girl. It is a dream that i saw realised in bits and pieces. Never in the one piece. Never all together.
Is that sad?
Mountains. I have climbed so many mountains. Why? I have stood at the top of many peaks and looked down, way down. Into glaciers. Into the Atlantic. Into waterfalls. Into bogs. Lakes. Funiculars. Up, at cliffs where peregrines sat. Over which ravens flew. Into the spaces where smirguhs appeared - and disappeared. I pretend that i am content with the furrows that i inhabit now. But sometimes, my soul, like a wild horse remembers. It remembers the tug and pull of the open untamed air and i sniff, strain. My nostrils flare at the longing for the coldness. The irresponsibility of being here. Of the inconsequences of this living. Oh at these moments i tire, i tire so of protocol. Of being mommy. Of the emptying of bins and making of meals. Of the routine of the school run. The emails. My body collects itself, wishes -
Pressed flowers - that's how i feel. A whole row of stuffed birds. Stuffed with sadust and taxidermy - all very pretty but all very dead. Their glass eyes staring at you, their wings poised to fly. But nothing can shift them, those lost things.
