Sunday, 5 February 2012
I'm making myself a map, covered in red stitches and blue ink, books of fluttering pages pinned down, wishes made into plans somewhere between my ribs amongst midnights and witching hours... This is past work, sent as a portfolio in the hope that a dream will turn into maps and plane tickets in my hand. This is some of what I am; fairy tales, words on white, silk stitches and still snow, tales of this land and the land itself, Irish and green, superstitions and the sea, I'm that weather watcher gathering charms and the rains washing in...
And this is a work in progress, written one summer night;
I’ll draw down the rains. I’ll call up a storm.
I’ll bargain at the crossroads,
that time, that place
I’ll shut my mouth; store up the heart-sore ah’s
and those floating butterfly oh’s until you tear
them from me.
I’ll build castles brick
a house of cards to come tumbling down.
I’ll stitch in the stars and still the night,
I’ll steal away the hours
and hide them between the coffee and the jams.
I’ll cloak myself in the blue of that sky and the strength of days,
wrapped around me like a blanket,
still nothing to your heat;
quiet and scorching,
like August on the sills.
I’ll tie up my hair, and keep it for only you;
curl by dark,
Something to unwind
like honeysuckle in the night,
heady and damp.
And still I’ll charm those apples and I’ll tell the bees
I’ll lay aside that honeyed halo
and I’ll befriend that fickle sea
until you come home to me.
All lists of intent, words and wills and I'll set my will now, because scars create strength... Today is green and turf fires, high smoky skies and we're still in-between. Today I love tulips, I love popcorn and films flickering in the dark, I'll always love tea and cake and laughter and hate inconsiderate words or actions. Today the woman I am is barefoot, she wears red like a charm, and she's not there yet but she can feel that familiar sense of hope...