On reflection


31st December 2008


There was one thing I had to do before the year slipped to the other side of the mirror.

It had nothing to do with new year cards nor with parties and feasts, though I've been busy with at least two of those three.

My goodbyes were for something I would not see again till spring. And it's this:

















Every time I go, I want to move in. Not possible so I've moved it into a story. The words and people are still unwritten but whenever I go there, they stamp on the page. I can see the scribe's daughter, drinking on the verandah with one man who is trying to teach her to see another. I wake with her, looking through her eyes through the trees outside her window. The man she does not allow herself to look at is outside. His eyes are full of the arrows of the dead.

I see them not seeing most clearly when I am there.

And now it's closed for winter. But if it snows, I shall go anyway and stand outside until I am warm.