Absence
When the morning doesn't fit, when I seem to be missing the lid of the jigsaw box that holds the pieces of my day, I leave the house and walk through the orchard to the row of leylandii and look at the depressions in the dusty ground beneath them where I'm sure the wild pheasants nestle during the day, even though I only know them from claw marks left in the dusty earth, that my hand never finds a trace of warmth in the shallow bowls, not even a feather.
Some days I catch a glimpse of them – the males barred bright gold and brown, their red wattles, the mottled females – skittering between the rows of apple trees, always keeping a distance. How could they trust us after all this time?
I startled them once, in the farmyard when I opened the back door, a dozen or more of them taking flight at the sound then sight of me: the whirr of wings loud enough to make me step back suddenly, alarm mixed with delight, flashes of green and purple returning to me at moments for the rest of that day, like a charge to the heart.
When the morning doesn't fit...yes, a walk with the wild things brings me back, too. Touching the place they slept, like a dream slipt out of memory, but knowing feeling the impression.
ReplyDeleteI think we can all identify with the first sentence.Lynne. You are going great guns on the river...
ReplyDeleteSuch a rich piece here. Fantastic imagery.
ReplyDeleteThank you -listening to stones, Frank, the sacred cave... lovely to have your generous comments.
ReplyDeleteLynne x
I so enjoyed this.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Anthony : )
ReplyDelete