I found something I wrote whilst happily slightly intoxicated, which is the natural state of someone returning to Drunk Wales*. I have not drafted this but am instead allowing you the full state of things: for your own amusement…..
The Aftermath of Being an Owl
The memory of wood carves my feet.
The air falls heavy with feathers and plant matter.
The people are silent. The noise is silent.
This is the space of the past.
Above our heads –
Above the door –
We dressed our entrance in ivy and willow. Chains fell from snaked ropes and empty masks, wild synthetic appliqué. It falls before my eyes like a veil. It heaves with the cliché.
Impossible people are falling from my head. Now our simple black room looks a mess. The leaves are trampled to nothing, danced to pieces, the floor is shattered to wood. Together we breathe the silence, transformed, and together we agree it feels as though nothing ever happened.
Gwydion has dissolved into the colours of holi and dance. His ancient words have vanished to music in memory. Math is to join the deer up on high Scottish hills filling our black whipped space with disparate rhythm. Everyone falls into another and fits neatly into a box rotting. I call this box memory. It is full of pomegranates. They fall on the piano keys and –
(I call this memory a lie. It took place in another universe, I lie, it can’t have happened here. Without my owl face I try to perch on my wooden tree trunk plinth and fall. Everything is broken and everything has passed to past –)
The note is dis-
I hand the pomegranates to Persephone, I crush them into her palm. This happened in the past.
Alone I am. I stand like a vase in the mirror, my face is painted, I have lost my owl’s feathers.
*Wales has been drunkening since the ‘80s, or perhaps even before. The towns are like livers failing to rejuvenate, falling into decay. We continue to sing along into the night and through to day, in the face of flooding and destruction and the money falling away.