Friday, 18 July 2008


summertime and we are walking through endless green landscapes, eating poached eggs, sharing unfolding family secrets that hang like dark bubbles, buying second-hand anatomical books, sitting on soggy lime green grass and licking white double cream from brown chocolate butterfly cakes. we are in our homeland our old land, where we were born but not where we live. As I write I have just been given my grandma's silver coffee spoons. I hold their tiny slender perfection, necks fragile and steely like swans. I sit, I write, I wish, I am, anxious and steady as the girls beside me watch Alice sliding through the looking glass, I hear the gentle clink of cutlery from the tidying kitchen  and feel the jabberwocky haunting our soft sofa dreams.


Marjojo said...

You write and life becomes poetry and poetry alive. With pain and woundedness and joy and wonder, with breath and heartbeat. (Love the description of your nan's silver coffee spoons.)

lasuza said...

Thanks Marjojo- at the moment I am living ike a nomad- heaving bags through green landscapes, nursing teething babies on someone elses bed and wishing for a drifting day to dream and write.