Meanderings

and a duet of poems

I've been away this week on a retreat so I've found  some writing  from several years ago when I was living in East Lodge, which I hope you will enjoy. 

Meanderings 
Flying insect numbers have plunged by 60 per cent since 2004.                                                                    Once the insects go we have months, not years, to survive, according to E.O. Wilson, a world expert on ants. 
As I scroll through Facebook  over an  incredibly late  breakfast  this doom- filled prognosis  licks at my  quiet serenity, gained from timeless slumbers last night.
 I arise from the table after consuming a large bowl of home-designed muesli and drinking several cups of Lapsang tea to go walking in the garden; I had already let the chickens out, but left the broody hen imprisoned in the cats travelling basket to watch her companions eat their meal; an incentive to get over her desire to hatch eggs.
 I go down to liberate her now; she emerges to go placidly to eat, without the fluffed-up feathers and little purring noises that accompany broodiness.

  I drift along the path into the woods, to see the bluebells, remembering with pleasure that I have asked my son to come to Courtmacsherry this evening, to the bluebell woods there on the headland; a yearly ritual.
 And it pleases me to see the bright gold of the marsh marigold flowers, transplanted a few years ago from the Bandon riverbank where they grow plentifully; now they have settled and become glorious in their multiplying on the edge of my little pond. 

Yesterday I dragged a few handfuls of waterweed out, so the water has fallen clear, with more room for the one golden fish that has grown larger each year, hiding from the heron in the silty depths.

I venture further, still in pyjamas and dressing gown, and my old green cut- off wellies, inherited from whoever had left them here in the house when I moved in, nearly 9 years ago now.
I walk along to the stream, pleased to notice the red campions I bought and so carefully protected with wigwams of sticks  a couple of years ago,  growing and flowering and obviously happy here in the woodland shadows,  the dusky pink of their petals  looking so well  amongst the bluebells.  
And then without thinking about where I am going, or why, I carefully edge across the bridge constructed of three mossy logs placed from bank to bank, avoiding stepping on the clump of bluebells which have madly decided to grow on the soft brown hummus of the path; and notice a large patch of flag iris growing now under the tall beech trees, having seeded themselves on the bank of the stream. 

I wander further up-stream, remembering how my son and son- in-law had messed around last summer with my grandson Colm, making dams with old broken roof slates and sticks; and the remains of their efforts are still there, though the stream has found its way through cracks,  slithered through gaps, and is hardly held back at all anymore . 
 I gaze up the stream-bed seeing bluebells and fallen branches and brambles; a veritable jungle, a mysterious magical world stretching beyond.  I am awed that it has surely not been trodden by humans for many years, until now, as I conceive the idea to walk upstream.
 I find ways, slowly and delightedly, smiling at my 67 year old self exploring, just as I did as a child at the local stream, where a group of us used to play on summer evenings.  I get stuck in the brambles of course and patiently extricate myself, pulling prickles from my fingers, and detaching old spiky branches from my hair and my dressing gown.
 I  decide to find a way to cross the stream, as it’s almost impossible to go further up this side, or even to walk up the streambed, as there are mossy long- fallen trees lying across from bank to bank  and briars entangled.  I nearly fall into the stream as I endeavour to cross on a mossy log which begins to disintegrate as soon as I put my weight on it, but I grab an overhanging tree branch and save myself; the old skills of woodcraft coming back to me...and in the end I find a safer way to gingerly make my way across on a less rotten branch. 
I stand straight and survey the terrain, seeing that, having crossed to the other side of the stream, there is now no way to get down the high steep bank into the dense woods on that side, and no way without great trouble to find my way through those dense woods back to my own terrain; though it’s only a few hundred yards. 
So I walk as carefully as I can, along the high bank itself, trying not to crush bluebells which cover the ground in front of me, that beautiful poem by Yeats coming into my mind about walking gently so as not to tread on dreams; and remembering that if I don’t squash them too much they will be resilient enough to recover.  
Finally after tricky negotiations with the tangles of briars and branches I find I am back at the place of the dam.  I see there is a way where it is possible to find sliding footholds in the leaf- moulded bank, without getting involved with brambles tearing my leg-flesh.  I half slip down to find myself standing on the edge of the stream on fallen ground, able to cross over easily into known territory, feeling as if I have been on a great adventure, and thankful to be home.  I make my way back to the house, happy to see the white hen is scratching around in the soil of a flower bed, not showing any signs of broodiness.  

There is moisture in the air but in indolent mood I decide to take cushions and my book and spend an hour or so, not taking my mobile phone to gauge the time even, and lie on the old wooden garden lounger amongst the busily scratching hens. I am liberated from fear of the cockerel squaring up for a fight with me; he got chased by my daughter’s little dog who was staying here for a few days; since then he has lost his mojo completely and just stands around looking forlorn, showing no interest in anything apart from the occasional rape of a hen; I so miss his crowing, but definitely not his aggression towards me.
 It’s hard to get out of the habit of carrying a stick with me everywhere outside to fend him off if he decides to attack me; but such a relief, as when he did attack, I used to be left shaking with fear, traumatised, remembering times when he had drawn blood.
I read and read, thoroughly content, moved by the last chapters of the book. As I lie there gentle rain falls but I don’t get up; I am half under the trees and so comfortable there in my cushioned ease;  it really doesn’t matter, I remind myself,  if I get a little damp ....the hens are happy,  there is a huge bumble bee visiting the blossom of the apple trees , and as I  turn the last pages I become aware of the midges, just a few itchinesses on my head to begin with, which I ignore, but then there are many swirling around me in the soft air,  and I watch them in fascination,  remembering the headlines read this morning and a little  comforted, reassured  by their presence here, despite  their  irritations of my skin, especially amongst my hair.  But in the end, persecuted by the itching, I retire inside to finish my book.

I wrote these poems a few years ago, and offer them now as I look forward to spring; this last week having finally been given the promise of long forgotten sunny days, and the greening of all things.
 
 Gifts of flowers

A gentle walk in May,
dusty pink campion clasped in my hand.
My mother’s stiff-legged little dog
Hurrying before me along the lane
nuzzling Hedge Parsley and Buttercups,
as we pass in to the graveyard.

My father’s granite slab,
'In sure and certain hope,
Treasured husband etc.'

Great bunches of creamy primroses we picked
he and I,
in damp Devon moss.
Cradled in crinkly leaves.

++++

My childrens’ posies,
Campion, Hedge Parsley, Buttercup,
wilting in grubby fists,
Fuchsia, Yellow Flag, Foxglove
held up solemnly in token for mother.
All-endeared.

Wistful vision,
repeatable perhaps,
as another generation begins.
My daughter’s daughter
immanently expected.

Will she in three years offer up
a bunch of fairy flowers
to sit in glory on my bleached old table
in a glass?

A pleasure maybe regained,
as life encircles me.
Dusky pink Campion, Buttercup, Hedge Parsley.
Remembered gestures melt me again,
entirely.
Such sweetness so.

I miss the back step of my last home, where I spent so much time  nursing cups of tea watching the world of the garden and the fields beyond.

 Poem while sitting on the back step

Late nights and slow mornings                                                                         ferment soliloquies and contemplations,                                                             and revellings:                                                                                    	                    

The solitary bee bumbling  amongst the forget-me-nots.                                                        A duet of Orange Tip butterflies skittering, dipping and dancing.                     The trees stippled green,                                                                                                      with glittering multitudes of new leaves,                                                    trembling in the wind.                                                                                                   Dogs and cats variously sprawled and curled in the sun.                           

My being here,                                                                                                                        in communion,                                                                                                                                is enough.