I’m watching the ocean. There is a load of it to watch, even if I am only seeing a big bowl of salty soup with brushstroke islands in the distance. Some of them long and flat with the odd bump and others rising like fists into the tissue paper sky. Like a punch. Around their edges the moontide shoves water up their basalt/granite flanks and their flanks shove it back like a Get off Me woman thing. Over and over again this goes on as if it is a war between the ultimate limits, old rocks and old sea. Both are dangerous when roused. But, as neither wins, the war just repeats like a treadwynd, an endless cyclical process, circle circle circle, until we both dizzy.
I see the tipple grasses list this way and that as the clouds have no idea where to go next. I watched the same ones this morning, as dawn yawned and lit her lamp and they were going that way. Now, they’re going this way. Must be exhausting to be a cloud unless you get the chance to off your load over someone just lighting up their barby. That could be fun, if you like that sort of thing. The whatsit reeds are going brown at the tips, as is the bracken, but nobody minds that happening. It’s been weeks since I could walk to the fairy woods because the bracken is my height and loaded with ticks and I am so not bothering with that. Besides, it is rather discombobulating to be placing my feet into such a darkness. Although I know the path, this confoundment of bracken creates a jungle that has my imagination spiralling loops.
Behind the tissue paper, the lamp is lit so that sun glow pervades the grey and startles it into a canopy of white hope. I am wishing the clouds, now One Cloud (probably conceding defeat with all this cantering across the sky for hours) would just relax and let go. That might mean I could watch Sky instead of all these shades of grey. Fingers of rather lovely resistance frond across the earthly ceiling, linking fingers as the bullying wind goes off to bother someone else. It thinks me of women. Women and their ocean tears. Women who send a son off to war; Women who care for sickness within the family, the street, the community; Women who fight for bread in a daylong queue; Women who sing their rebellion, write it, demand it, walk for it, run for it, sew it into stories that might hang on walls, might not. Women who seek red, the blood of red, the call and the fist of red, a woman’s colour for her whole life. She had to grow to love it because, once, she was princess pink, if she was lucky. Or, is it lucky?
I watch the softening sky, the grey fingers interlaced, the distant blue of the land so many miles away. I watch the ocean and I wonder……how much of this salt is your own, Ocean, and how much of it are the tears of women?