Somewhere

 

Disgust.. at words

at news stories

culture, the obsessions of people,

Opinion

nations and names....

Righteousness,

The tribe. At information, at data.

I've heard too many lies as lies now, I don't hear the truth in them.

Then even the lies are lied about.

A hundred leaves ... So why one, bigger than the rest?

When representation cannot be ceded?

Would Haavikko know?

My life, not much lived: projected in giant letters across the crowns of the forest. That can't be right.

Sir Cyril Radcliffe. August 1947.

Dry verge peppered with vole holes...

Rain... which window?

We sit at four stacked tables...

Alphonse Daudet, poète.

The dogs played in the lorry park, 

One coming to lick the sardine tins.

The wasp who carved off a ball of tuna paté.

I touch you

Jump

Jump on me

The girl cartwheels 

She sings with the programme, flicks channel

Eats something

Jumps on her sister

Squeals laughter

Again

Mum scolding

Toddler's big round eyes,

Loving to walk on the pavement

In the way again

Wide arcs, spurts, dashes

The children don't know it yet

But the magic thing isn't technology it's us.

Can I take my sewing machine?

But when they were really young they knew: the moon, animals, snow. . .

*

Every day the numbers rained down

And I was frightened

And angry. I kicked the stone and said:

Life is what cannot be measured.

And then a new fear. Where can I cling now,

If every measurement is wrong?

*

The blind in the caravan doesn't hold, it flies up. Suddenly remember the blinds in the cottage bedroom where my sis and I used to sleep. I was in my teens. The wooden bear, the guitar, the tape recorder. Lying awake, waiting for the mosquito to land on my chest. Or when our grandmother slept there too, her snoring.

The church bell tolls its data into the minds of the inhabitants: seven, eight. . .

But the storks, nesting in the north shade above the bell, are completely untroubled.