"You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves" from the Wild Geese by Mary Oliver With thanks to Grace . . .
In Midsummer now brightest green and lush lasting only moments counting every one through one half shut eye land bathed in light still promising so many balmy days ahead . . .
A Kamilaroi story tells of a magnificent male Kangaroo, so overtaken by the dancing of the locals that he joined the circle and danced a special dance that is still celebrated today. The Dreaming of Aboriginal Australia, ed Jean A Ellis, 2006 I am learning about this concept of Aboriginal Dreamtime . . .
I'm in Micky Macs place. It's been disturbed by party goers, doors open to the yard, a gentle sea breeze blowing through windows, cracked and broken. I once visited him here in his smokey room, walls blackened from the wood fire. I sat on a settle bed in a wollen blanket while he sat on that once pink arm chair with a once yellow . . .
~ Passionate today about intoxicating PURPLE that's all~ . . .
There's a bit of a warrior queen in me that wants to protect my creative space. If I could make a moat of distance between me and the world I would do it. Barricading myself into a turret room and staying there for as long as it took or until I was thoroughly weary of it. I also know that no sooner had I closed the door, than I would weep for . . .
Dublin, a series of small villages linked by canals, bridges and some tree lined Dublin suburbs. Downhill into town, uphill home in the evenings. From here, the Dublin Mountains are a snowy backdrop behind the clock tower and the glistening dome of the church in Rathmines. From here a few minutes by bike in either direction and . . .
Her labour Salty finger tips cling to aching wrist. Pumping elbows, hang from cliff hanger shoulders. Taut chords strangle the hardened neck. Delivering a weighty head through brain blowing tedium. Leaves tangle and soak her skin. Cool on cheeks, all hot from google alerts. Eyeballs . . .
I am on the move and missing those walks on the lane. From life on the road, the midlands of Ireland open like a golden tablecloth waiting to be laid for Spring. Crumpled, layered, deep. The dark trees are silhouettes now, solid and strong. They open conversations with the sky and the land. Then they turn to me saying . . .
I crashed into the week with news of an unexpected piece of work which was urgently required but at the very same time an old slain dragon (one I thought had long been put to bed) suddenly erupted into fiery form and whacked me over the head with it's tail!!! In no time there I was in the eye of . . .