F O T O, poems 71 - 80
The hole at Döda Fallet (poem 75) |
[Image source: https://cykelsparet.wordpress.com/sidospar/doda-fallet/]
71.
(Writing in Sveja café)
Rain blew us in here, among almond cakes
sheened
with icing: the commonest things! postcards,
souvenirs,
the stillness ― nailclippers glinted yellow
and blue.
The tea chinked. Outside, prowling, the rain
continues.
72.
(Spinning wheel at Sveja café)
Slowly
this spinning stopped. It went with its people
who
one by one lay down in hospitals and stopped.
No
spinning for me! No mild face, no clasp
or hat,
no
share in any of the homespun things they hoped.
73. (Red moss in the forest)
By the
way-side, the wanderer’s pillow:
prod,
and a cool damp rises. I tried to forget it,
but my
fingers don’t forget: for many years
they
have begged to sleep in the free forest.
74. (Döda Fallet ― the Dead Fall)
A sculling water stood, sucked into a braid
between trees
and boiling, twisting, exploding in the past,
that hollow place. Bare stones, and the smell
of coffee.
A bee hums flatly, crossing the same river
twice.
75.
(Looking through a hole in the rock ― Döda Fallet)
The
river’s whorls left the stone drilled and in two places
ventilated
with our day. You up there, me below.
We
shouted so each could hear the space around.
I’m
not a mirror or a telly, I am the one you know.
76. (Setting off ― hat on back)
Raindrops kindled on an aspen-leaf; unrolling
over fields
the sun sharpened each edge of trees with
newer light.
Maybe they look now as they really are,
living in stillness.
With us it’s different, we launched wheeling
on menstrual routes.
77.
(Laura writing ― Holmstagården)
You
shield this, not to keep secret for always,
but to
present mocking and hear with delight.
You
dress up a whole stretch of yourself at once,
to
slay me beside the pines in the sunlight.
78.
(Dad and me by bonfire)
The
smoke rose far off, I hurried to come and stand by you.
Then
we regard the flames and share the distance
you
couldn’t help imposing, when I was born. In the midst
of
youth I was there: you made me, yet it felt like chance.
79.
(Bonfire ― smoke and sun)
Leafy
boughs crackle, turn red and evanesce.
Thick
smoke chivvies us sideways. The sly-heap dwindles.
Twenty-five
summers of burning, to make out this garden
a
nature with paths, a hymn of sky and details.
80. (Laura raking bonfire)
Then
we scrape it back, hush it into a calm oval
like a
sleeping breast, a shallow mound.
The
trees breathe again their damp gaseous food.
After
dark, it glows softly and pink, warm all round.
*
Back-story. Walks and cottage chores around Utanede in E. Jämtland.
71-72 A cafe that operated for a few years at the south end of the village.
74-75 The famous "Dead Falls", the exposed river-bed at the former site of Storforsen, now a tourist attraction a few miles further up the Indal valley. I gave a brief account of what happened here: http://michaelpeverett.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/flowers-from-jamtland-july-2013.html
78-80 Bonfires are only permitted during, or soon after, rain.
79. "Sly". Local word for straggly young trees and bushes, which grew very rapidly and had to be cleared from the garden every year.
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