‘Your emerald green, your favourite velvet gown: how grave
the small, white frills around
your neck; how grown-up, Niamh, the eldest daughter; sea-girl wreathed with leaves red and brown; so delicate-fair, so sensible, responsible; so sad; those rosy lips, flushed cheek, and far-away eyes I know. But is it really you?
Is it you, my lovely sister? Here again once more in time, you find yourself
absently posed with handfuls of autumn leaves; is it really you; really me?’ […]
O is lost again, coming and going between here and there, between
the ebb-tide and the seaweed strand; between today and tomorrow; crackles and fades between stations; between rooms filled
with perfumes, sees the sisters four across a polished floor, gathered
around the gathering of leaves; choreographed, shape the passing time; here and now, in a corner of the gallery, withdraw the purple rags of time.
Always the centre of attention, her sad brown eyes release white-dove sighs; and like his - and like His, arms outstretched, body arched, nailed in pain - are raised to the heavens; his arms folded now, a sideways polaroid, proud in paisley; charcoal trace of fossil
swirls from ancient forests, bracken and sea-deep anemones; deep, deep, they lie too
deep for tears; thirteen year old boy strains to hold himself, hold his breath
and keep from drowning; and mumbles: ‘sometimes I think the world’s
going mad, sometimes I think it’s just me being clever; sometimes I think it’s
only my clothes that are holding me together’ […]
Once more she finds herself somewhere near the border
of tears; hears the white waves hoarse whisper and remembers the Dharma,
and the Dao; and the Da da, and a Darling golden ear-ring, and a wicked pirate’s
grin, and the child’s first Da da the smiling father proudly misunderstands; and glimpses the way back through the door in the wall to the garden and the beautiful lady, who calmly sits and reads, palms still open ivory in her lap; through
weeping steel guitars that bend and sway like warm bodies; and in the garden beneath the winding stair,
the blonde boys quarrel on the cobbles; and the white face crumbles to reveal full
lips and liquid black eyes; and caterpillar lashes flutter into brilliant
fishes […]
