Then
that night – in the moonlight under the stars, I went down into the
wood: to its pine heart; and garnered from the forest floor into my
hamper box, small twigs, pine and fir and larch cones, covering them
with palm.
I
ranged outward, seeking the brown yellow and green, turning to
amber, fallen-sinner-leaves covering them with creeping ivy. I
scooped up hawthorn haws, yew berries and
green spiky chestnuts, womb-open, showing their fruits inside.
I
went and stole from gardens jasmine, lavender and bramble. From the
bogs their heather and their peat. At dawn I took this treasure trove
of forest bog and garden, to the house; to her father’s door, where
he stood in his day-clothes.
I
carried the captured night-time into that bitter-sweet bower. I
surrounded her with the woodland. I gave her soft air born of pine
fronds that wafted chestnut smells and whirling seeds of sycamore. I
made for her the rustling sounds of leaves, wind-tossed against the
swaying bark of ash and beech.
As
sacred as any priest of pipe and plug, I pared and rubbed between my
palms the peat and heather, and dropped the chaff along the floor and
blew the fragrance to the air. I scattered the gardens on her bed. I
told her I was sorry and called her my first love. She smiled and
reached up her small hand and whispered “Hi.”
As
the day filled our new wood with light we murmured of the old days
and never spoke about the present The family left us alone that day.
We whisper-talked, remembering.
She
dozed and then we whispered again and then she dozed again. Together
we waited.
In
that Blackthorn Month, that Secret Night of The Yew: of death and
rebirth, transformation and reincarnation; Deirdre died. They wrapped
her and hid her away: carrying her in the heart of the coffin-wood,
that once hid pine martins, squirrels, owls and sleepy,
hot-foot-hopping, pigeons.
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