In a gondola steered by a bunny with pink
ears and white feathered wings, I rest.
Serene and floating upon a turquoise body of water,
I keep my eyes closed, keeping out the light,
keeping out thoughts of failure.
Let me just drift into the unknown
where there may be green shoots to suck
and damp grass to tinkle my toes.
Who knows, what’s around the bend.
All I know; I’m wearing my favourite bow,
my rubber giraffe is sinking like a ship
along with my rocking horse of dreams.
She’s called Daphe, the woman running the business training out of her Notting Hill home.
The Thames curves south from here by Chelsea, sluggish brown. The city’s awake and burning.
Have you been to see the damage yet? he asks, in our snatched conversation.
Almost gleeful in his hunger to hear details about the tower block which blazed leaving so many people missing or dead.
He says there’s photographs of the missing stuck to tree trucks, walls and railings. Black, brown and olive skinned and missing.
I don’t want to see this suffering. The ruins becoming a tourist attraction. Leave them with some dignity. Always having to endure the gaze in life and death.
Could I be as cute and cunning as a fox, I giggle into another snapshot filter.
Happy in my play and disregard for others’ opinions.
His eyes are open and still. I think he’s a he, slight and young. Pointy nose with white frosting.
The rest of him is a dull orange red.
So whole and perfect and dead.
Lying on his side at the edge of the motorway, four legs sticking straight out as if ready to bounce back onto, after playing dead.
I feel guilty. I didn’t hit him. He was already dead when I flew by in Summer, my metallic orange Susuki Splash, honest.
But when I see him dead as clear as day, I feel shame at my mini Snapchat film and buying into the cunning as a fox stereotype of fairytales.
My heart stays in my throat for the whole day.
Why did he have to die, such beauty and no blood?
I’ve always had a wandering relationship with water.
Called it curiosity as a child. Call it freakiness as an adult. To feel the curling nothingness upon my skin, turning once dry to wet.
I’ve always wondered where the water flows,
why it’s never the same sea twice and
why they keep pulling me back to dive deeper into their cores?
I want to send out a love that feels hard to the people so when they feel it they pay attention.
That they don’t dismiss it as soft.
I want them to feel it in their gut like a punch. Recall the power.
That they don’t miss the promise it holds.
Yes, I want to send out a love that feels hard to the world so they stop taking it for granted.
That they don’t forget to send it back to me.
Since the words we use reflect our worldview, controlling language helps control the picture that we see of the world. – Paul Kingsnorth
Northumberland National Park’s writer in residence Dr. Sheree Mack loves immersing herself in nature. She has learnt to destress through nature and found inspiration for her creative writing in the great outdoors.
Join Sheree and National Park Ecologist Gill Thompson on International Earth Day to discover how to get the most out of your personal nature experience.
Date And Time
Thu, 22 April 2021
11:00 – 14:30 BST
From some hints on where and when to find hidden natural delights to practical tips on capturing your own precious memories through journaling, this online workshop will prepare you for a meaningful connection with nature.
Joining details will be sent ahead of the event.
This is the first event I’ll be facilitating in relation to my writer in residence with the Black Nature in Residence Project.
The snow is falling slow and silent. The light is reflected, brighter, bolder. The trickling melt underlines the heavy silence. Under the duvet on the couch, cocooned in creativity, I’m enjoying the process of slow writing. I’m enjoying touching the writing everyday. I’m enjoying how random feelings and thoughts, ideas and experiences take shape. I’m mindfully pulling things together, holding fragments up to the light, turning them this way and that, questioning; do you fit, do you sing? Not even losing most of the writing I’d already completed for the mixed-genre memoir, and I mean lost, gone, never to be seen again writing, is deterring me or derailing me or worrying me. It’s like I’ve seen the light, something has shifted into place and I’m just enjoying the ride, not bothered about the destination. And that feels so good.
Living Wild Studios 