Entanglement
I am not an owner.
A nice little house:
I can love that-
And the children baging in and out:
“Hi, mum! ”
But not to hold.
For it belonged in that moment
Squeezed between the bottom gate,
Swinging stiff past the grey stone & oak scrub,
[The water always did pour through-
grinding a stony hollow in the road]
And the bracken on the hill.
It belonged there.
I take it out
And touch it sometimes-
The different textures
Shifting in my hand.
And then it’s gone
And it’s not gone
It IS in the deep fabric of me.
In the “beyond time” bit
-So I can move on
I don’t own people
Which is difficult for them, sometimes,
-my children
I am not an owner.
There is no beauty in a pinioned bird.
But see him lifting on the wind-
Ah then I fly as well
- my love.
[So why do you throw this shadow over me?
Why don’t you leave if you feel so caged?
Why don’t you go if you feel so unfree?
I try to push you away
So that you can feel your wings.
Like shaking my hand to free flypaper,
I
Get more entangled-
Who is then the fly? ]
(Blaen-yr-Henbant Dec.1990)
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