Broken parts of things lost
Between the floorboards of my mind
The playground sing-song,
Holiday cottage of yesteryear,
That checked shirt I wore,
Purple and black,
When I was eight
But wait
I’m not mourning girlhood
I’m dreaming myself into maturity
Growing into the one
I’m scared to become
Yet free now
To walk this path
To the gate
Of my medicine garden
Asking noone’s permission
To turn the key
But my own
Broken,
in places I cannot see.
Lost,
in spaces I cannot feel.
Where the river carves a gash
Through the road
So that none shall pass,
There is nothing to do
But sit on my arse.
I slip into those quiet places
Where broken parts meld and mend
And in lost-ness, I find a friend.
The afternoon so warm and damp.
If I were a seed, I’d germinate.
Years’ worth of hours stolen-
owed to my solitude.
My naked dance with the muse,
casting her glitter on blank pages,
scattered like golden grains.
I curl away from tasks outside of me;
retract inwards
to the red cave
where I burrow deeper into mystery;
declare myself Ancient Woman
beholden to noone.
The sharp scent of cloves,
spicy, potent,
like the witch I carry inside me
who flouts rules and niceties.
Maybe a song will trickle out
between the gaps in meaning;
where the words sit beating
their wings like tiny hearts.
Open eyes of a child
scanning the sky,
looking for rainbows,
breathing ‘why?’.
Light dancing
on the stream.
Frog on rock,
the mossy dream.
Animal language,
fingers in the earth.
Celebrate,
unlearn,
return,
rebirth.
In animal darkness:
half light of flame and fire,
the ache of onset makes way
for the gush and rush
of release.
Moan, groan,
moo, howl.
Shit, sweat,
blood-striped thighs
The breath,
the push,
the miracle cry.
Then skin on skin,
waxy, wet, we lie,
in slippery grip
of love.
