Glorious blueness, as ice retreats – or is it just an illusion? This sun captured shortly after lunchtime can’t go higher. Except for our celestial clock, comets & stars invisible…
Too weak to melt ice in one day, it will not trick me out for long! I still feel grounded inside walls and devote time to feed my heart with others’ words, spoken or sung; revive embers inside the hearth and watch our sky turning purple.
A few days ago, I contemplated devising a sleep calendar to celebrate that much sought after return of the spring equinox. Not that I hate winter… Let’s just say I like ice in a wee dram [none in whisky though, as I favour it straight… Just with] Bénédictine, Fécamp’s “water of life”, from time to time! Walking to my nearest bus stop in-between dawn & the sunrise feels like stepping onto rice crispies at the moment! Thank goodness, our sunrises and sunsets have been rather spectacular. …If only I could ask the school bus driver to stop for a photo… Our local land and seascapes just look glorious from the main road! But by the time we reach Sandwick, dusk overrides blue afternoons… Bah, c’est la vie!
grand mother knits –
there in my soul I’m still feeling
my great grand mother’s hands.
Time ties strong bones around bollards.
No more Terre-Neuvas, sixareens…
Fécamp or Baltasound,
barrels belong to celluloid,
microcosm on microfiche
like a treasure
That woman gutting fish
looks like my ancestor:
head-dressed in a white scarf,
Benedictine sister –
their knives so feverish
on the shore of both lands,
Norman or Shetlandic…
Silver nitrate turned to yellow,
eyes on postcard revive
one tale of the hareng*.
Poet’s note: hareng = herring.
And since tomorrow is unborn, I shan’t worry about black or blue ice outside the front door of my home…