september 18 2013 sheep pool

light comes and this dull catch of broken trees lied sideways is touched and ripples although the water is not there
sounds magnify sheep bird machine wind leaf
steam off the dampness I am seeing water evaporate as sun shines through it, never noticed that
gems of water screech in the lost green hair of this source lank and strange
I know this is the source marked like a monk’s tonsure
one gleam is copper I will have to investigate and still the steam like a miniature geyser whirls up to croak crow some nature’s witches caldron
it is not in words this is but it is not words gleam like reflected green moss when they fall out right
and this slow moment of sun entering a shallow stream bed lightens all of me as if seeing is as living is to the trees  its quiet beauty blooms again inbred with our memories noe a 3 voice sheep chord and yodel cowboy style
water and light cook ( reveal) wonder  enchantment
willow leaves shimmy
the copper has gone diamond now from below the sky heaves suddenly blue and I feel low and enclosed sudden cloud and it all sinks but it has been illuminated whether by weather or my mind it has glowed
I wandered and found the one upright tree unnoticed before then slowly leg-holdingly I crossed and saw another top of skull nearby a green leaf full of dew- without thought I lifted the leaf and poured the water like a death baptism over the top of the skull the fontanele and thought of CAD last night and her poem water and it being her mother’s last word, here again a last blessing just coming to me unbidden

july 28

the sheep retramp
the dried pond
I sit on the lead tank and slopping my bag down my eye is caught by a rib in the mud.
i sit on the edge of the stream uprising – source – all there is now is green grass living in a circle edged by skulls, last time two, now four all being uncovered by dryness so skulls go many feet down, and a new skeleton has been pulled in, by animal, human, weather?
the sheep themselves trample and retrample the empty pond, hooves and mess everywhere easy to walk among their own dead as it all slowly enters the ground
and the willow leaves are the ‘cake’ topping, holding a canopy
these are facts not poetry but I am drawn to lie down now in the source
so I did
and C traversed all the beams of the low cathedral accompanied by plane and branch break
we both entered the pool
I looked up and in the cloud sky a blue opening appeared – source below and above – open layers momentarily then on
I miss the water low and languid as it was these branches need their self reflection like myself – is there anything more than the real experience
i have wet patches, muck, smell on me and now a sheeps chorus!

I walk down the empty stream feel softness under my steps, pooh everywhere
twigs branches sticks
I sit on a tree that has 2 holes of where a pelvis bones should be so I am wearing an outer skeleton as i nestle back is it like a snail or some coated beast shell outwards holding my aching self self
I like the idea nature my outer shell do I have to make anything more?

Here lay a dead lamb water worshipped where my feet stand now every place in earth has received death over and over
have I forgotten this
I look down at the bluish earth and remember the lamb untouched but lying there in the pouring water and I remember the film of this
its a gratitude and a sadness for the invisibility of things except in the layers of my being all these paper thin versions of the same foot of stream deepening the shelves of experience I think I’ve got to stop using the word ‘hold’ and often move deeper, then flow, then let go, leave it in the cells of my history

june23/24

Stream June 23/24

suddenly the sky loses light, the rain hits leaves, the wind scoundrels and we are sitting in a storm
so hot and sweaty minutes ago

buried deep in coal learning trees wet on the page and my back , we write with no light and no knowledge of what is on the paper we are delude and hidden, two women who have traveled down a stream a dried out stream clasping holly by mistake searching for water – so many dried out sticks  and now we huddle ready to start taking things in and on the deeper level we have passed over the land now we descend into it like priestesses, potesses, human beings, sheep, trees – only the water wobbles on wherever it sinks in it reappears elsewhere, a moment ago it was a sparkling moonlight night now we are below the swirl of rain

I am lying with my bag over a hole down under a tree – I found it in the dark not really a good place maybe I will move  we walked up the hill to wait for the  clouds over the moon, the stars appeared to move – I got caught on barbed wire – there are insects I am losing it but glad its not a visionquest – there is no structure
the stream has gone we have walked down to where we can see water not moving but still there-it feels as dried as the skin on the back of my neck, some ingredient is not there – water- moisture purer acceptance
how can I not lie out in the garden and watch the canopy of unfurled trees above my head , me who always says look up – owl call a slight mist causes picks and pocks tree limbs crawl around us as much pat of the earth as ? there is real dark and silence – we have talked and I feel it is busy talk that I need to surrender
the walk down here was hard, sepia and overgrown, a crashing through a push aside , a bending low and twisting, scratching, pushing awkward, hard to feel a liquid stream was here weeks ago, and to be out in this wider landscape is relief as no undergrowth, from lack of light, a hidden hollow, suddenly blooming out of this tiny stream to its cathedral height the spread of trees. I am companied but I have not reached nature yet I will lie down

I hear the day come alive i am dense word and as light starts so does rain feel moisture underneath and as a quiet unfolding from above C lies quiet . I have not slept but my body has passed through many transitions even now I feel light flickering out the sides of my eyes
we are deep delude and the light skirts high above and like a fringe
i can make out the lying trees sleeping better than me I started on my back and felt those ecstatic waves flow through me  as the bones become loose in my body all I felt were the ribs behind my heart move up and down I lay in a wave warm and easy later on my side I shook uncontrollably with waves of cold then later after a covering the raging moves stilled and the body let go though no sleep and now the birds claim the day they are the canopy of sound high above it is loud and opening maybe  now I can sleep I will try – light is spreading into the cracks and I can see the words appearing on the page I am with this cold dawn of loud birds more of the wind passes by and this  ancient  unclosed loud takes from dull greys with light breaking the edges I feel alone asks sleeps and as I don’t and yet this is precious but oh I wish to have slept maybe briefly not like her depth now birds voices are like circuses trapeze glides twirls and razzmatazz I am wayting for colour to arrive will I actually see  its not just shades

june 9

june 9 stream
we find a damp tip frosted with horse chestnut candles(goat willow) and feathers – mist of dripping blossom the black water holds this muzzy skin still and bell like all things caught and held in its soup  stillness again I am low to change of earth to water mud filled from moss old bog to dull ranges of shuffled off droppings of trees and grasses, spring and burgeoning lumped as if some strange dust is now everywhere like a loo in which someone has hardly peed , it is like a skin over the water a layer only for this moment before things sink and fill in, disintegrate and merge even the trees seem knee deep in this dust liquid as if most were icebergs and were underneath hidden, toed down that the liquid is stronger than the solid – a roar of birds a large disturbance a whir  wing hitting leaves- faded bluebells stand yellowing the flowers closed and mauve leaves like thick yellow fur on the ground – spindle stems still straightly vertical – i am itching with insects the biters are out especially around this lunge deep soup, heavy I know it looks like small sawdust from planing not chopping wood and thats how it dusts the water – I need to lie back again even as my bitten finger and neck itch – give in to the pull – I lie on my side my two feet deep into sludge feels like a fairy tale as if my feet are dissolving into water as if my body becomes water at my feet and the bed of my body meets the bed of the ground while my feet slip away i am facing sideways again at this low low angle – why do we never look at things from ground level? Its all slowly slipping to the left an ounce of wind has shifted the furry surface to the left. i am alive with insects and the cold of the dull mud goes into my thighs, feet in it all bubbles up like a   I am sitting up now on a hillock of a tree feet close together in the water feeling comfortable, a footpath of the world! No need of fancy care , to bury ones feet in wellingtons in a black pond with time to sit is a reconnect to the live wires of radio of life cut, itching hard bone against branch light more than any time in the day welt appearing on my neck and backs of hands – I am gladly eaten by these tiny beasts we are all at it together, eating, consuming, using, giving, becoming each others cells inseperate, this is my netting  not animals, though more – birds are hope of course and miracle but its this earth this stream this living flesh of water, that air me, fill me, translate me into
a trembling frog skips nervously by legs stretching out displaying its yellows and a delicate stretch I gasped, unexpected encounter

later another adventure after getting los and prickled we found our birthing tree – now sitting after i feel my heart I really do but this time I took off my stuff – took breaths stayed in the open bit where I saw the light then traveled on – a moment, a twinge before I began a thought of – well no I don’t need to do this I slowly did it – as I came through the roots I twisted gracefully to be head up back to ground arms reaching in front of me and slowly, easily drew the rest of my body out and over the roots – it was graceful and easy I fitted and flamed gently through body held by root and let go by root – boots and socks off the cold need to traverse under the uprooted tree crossing the stream seemed , i mentioned baring all and making a way under the low tree and in the water – we took off our trousers and slowly bent down to curve under the  trunk of the sideways tree and rose the other side then returned – a cold dipping of the legs, of feet finding the floor of the stream of bowing under, we are moving with the stream now becoming children but not, then I needed a baptism upside down legs cold, I bent down holding the tree and doused my forehead and head this was the shock this time – so cold and touching another bowing bowing down its a gratitude shape, an easing shape.
I am looking at the earth i’ve crawled through the roots I have leapt from the tree I have dipped under the stream that has cooled me, the ground that has held my feet, no reclothed. I can reenact the ceremony in my head
into depth into root into earth slide out and slip around roots opening and closing water encasing legs dip under tree close water to bent body head meets stream i am elemental I always was as flesh is the tree as body s the trunk as blood s the stream as eyes are the twister together of it all – as evening begins and the quid of it all means I want to be nowhere else it is that moment of shadow dusk waiting to smooth over.
i have lived with this caught in the tree, caught in the tunnel fear for 2 weeks anxious heart fribulating all sense of self lost in an anxious rioting and nerves pulsating glancing off all and losing, pushing and pulling – on edge, on edge, nervy and lost and losing t and blaming/saying it was the tree the panic and fear of being unable breathe in the roots of a tree – some symbolic birth – now I have been through again i only hope it will flow and these unlearnt rituals will becalm the unrest mind and peace me.

May 24

let go of responsibility the muscle whirl of stream the shading of the swirls by a sharp    the holder by branch of forward motion the tiny whirlpools made by hooked roots

I see the roots opposite it is a burst spring even on a dull day the bluebells still dot and scatter, cow parsley now out a rage of leaves and green and all this movement and each and each second of raucous bird drill and shuttle releases the pulled tautness of livng – the gaping happens , the slow breathe can start – here with rain, with rain with rain doucement held off with canopy, allows the holding of one’s own mind and body and the unzip accept, loosen, drift

sat on a bluebell, am walking upstream in a fast flow stream, feeling the heldness the lilt of sound it gets so deep here, my boots would easily swell and fill and below me the mud moves like photos of Mars an entire cosmos exploding slowly  into the water each step creates new worlds. I am heels back down a river bank cold slowly taking the wellingtons moonscape bottom marked wild by force I move again upstream, carrying my mudtople worlds/planets at every step if only each step contained the world like this and it does we just forget

the everyday wonder

unless we forge a path forward towards it find our wealth in this

the hair of pond weed chips and whirls to the old tree trunk as voluptuous as any woman’s hair

all around me curls and flows, no other world will do, never

I slipped through a tree!

may 19

May 19
the greening
willow leaves obstruct the branches and as the water is sucked away the overhead green holds more and more, it is a smell today our feet stepping through the dying pond bottom raises putrid and natural smelled churns these two nearest skulls are now marooned not pillowed by their shiny changing limelighting water
they rest stuck in this stink mud losing some allure yet one of them is greening almost mossy and strands of bones look thiner the sockets larger, pieces worn off or broken hunkering down to leave. this ones eye sockets still follow me i know there are no eyes no macabre thoughts just still a being about it one can picture the bones and then the flesh and remake it into one of the sheep in the field, the other has passed to a new place disintegrate, reintegrate dissolve, more branch and mud, leaf and marshweed than arrival
is this the mineral?
of animal vegetable mineral which is it now?
a sheep with 2 lambs crosses our path to the water tank we are unnoticed again – a sheep tried to visit and rubbed hard on a branch near the last dead massacred sheep.
I walked the pond and in it still slowly going down body morphine I lean on a horizontal branch bubbles move feature and pop lunge glistens things are mulching and living in this swamp
I lean my head over and on other side the eyed skull is with me across the long journey of a festering pond it is a long journey even though it is 20 steps I’ve crossed a world, a lifetime a reason/season of death and stand in my temple held and sinking left heel going down and toes going up head in twigs shoulder
I am skulled across the soup divide both framed and serenaded with the loudness of near sheep, lost noise, begin, a lament for ancestors seems possible are the sheep circling u? Their own roundabout of yearning, finding, losing wool drifts like southern cotton

may 14

maybe there are no words today – lying forward on a fallen tree, legs either side, camera under my ribcage looking up the trunk to the dead branches and the branches newly leaved and feel this tree is another example of that slow go, the holding and breathing away of matter ‘any’ matter human, plant, tree, air, water – no water is the ongoing water’s dispersal is different elementally, knowing there is only a finite amount of water is unlike

this burial, this laying down so comforting like sleep, my feet hang back are in the water not the air gentle rock as this one flows with speed, its like being in air , it takes my foot gently and holds it in an unheld way, I have boots on , maybe that should change…

garlic is the scent, one yellow leaf in the stream against all the new green

the bluebells so unlike water

there is a break in the sky where the tree has fallen undoing the canopy and I feel rain

today I am populating – our bodies, our boots, our shadows, a slug alongside a a deep red bottle sharp blood colour, a dog, a person all invited in, boots in water dangling, then our slip into submersion the shriek of cold ritual and quick recovery baptism of course to complete a returning

discuss if colder or warmer and if water holds its own and air changes, the pleasurable impulse of the first time missing but fun to do and nice to treasure after – our bodies stream encased for seconds that stream now our outer skin, watering us under our clothes – as rain falls to water our outside layers as well, I like this secret knowledge that I will carry into the day

encased in stream

its as if all the ‘outer’ things are taking me today with this populating, maybe I am too tired today, an envy of the deeper mind when mine is tripping lightly at least I am not rejecting that as irelevant because its not deep

legs dangle again from bridge, both write with land stream, I am more attached to the idea of stream than this place – stop writing clare

just go to it

april 27

sudden sunburst and bubbles light and symphony of sheep being called in, fed, gathered, we hid- in the pool of the sunken pond hoping for concealment, at the end of the pond that holds old skulls comforting now like the bone we are and they are, water in funny rhythms around my feet shifting and sussing it all out but there is a horrific sheep carcass turned inside out ribs ripped its head a mutilated ingrown lump whether defined or mulched I can’t tell. We wait beneath the roar of sheep and lambs disturbed and called, distressed no, bellowing, I leave my feet in mud feeling slow gain of cold. C looks like a seer our sunken pool feels like a strange hidden hopeful place where we will pass unnoticed maybe not today, feels like a watershed a farmer is so close we wait hunched and still- the silouhettes of sheep and lambs just looping around us if we escape being seen it will be a miracle. Held hostage by sheep, lambs, feeding, farmer we hope for a sort of sanctuary that we can be here much like the bones, unseen, blending, becoming part of the place, I can only hope –

there is a large new sheep dead and disfigured lying on the far edge the start of another long process back to the bone but it is not the long sleeping of our first returnings these are brutal deaths, after births, manglings, a different sort of death and devouring. I ache a bit from smalling up and being inconspicuous, still the loud chanting goes on around us one lamb looks at us expectantly everything begins to deepen – a long call slightly piercing as a searcher ambushes others to find their own or not to find

I feel this is  could be the death throes of our being here, if we are found can we come back

april 8 2013

finally hidden, feel so exposed in this muckend of a stream huddled near the edge of a field, one white clean vertebrae on the grass then own to the orange silt water humping out of ground, deeper more full and over rounding the top

a gasp a cry one black furred leg red end of bone not wet reminds us of our lamb deaths

probably dropped by a fox it lies alone on the edge of the orange mulch we move downstream to the stream meet and sit and talk our anguish at the raw deaths after our weeks of accepting bones and death we are alarmed and sickened and had no thought of sheep here – and after sitting c walked upstream on the Y and another gasp it is the other black wooled leg tossed openly – were they dropped because we arrived – did we disturb no they have been there longer than that but again this unnatural death these limbs paired away like  – is more sickening than the whole destroyed body and here where there are no sheep a fox or dog has dragged these lambs unattached and blast red marrow still maybe warm –

I have gone downstream through holly that scratched my scalp so much I regret having to go back but right now I am hidden from the faced houses that overlook this dimple water and yet I remember our sinking  in here our pleasure in the tiniest of waterways and where I am hanging on the bank close to white light water is a base to fly with I actually love this place – for our visit for our return and for my returning and my one ot two words that polish up and yet I feel colder than I remember in the frost

there is a peace born of the hidden out of sight, just,noises of all so close humans all around and in this tiny mossed bank I really can repeat the lying down into this tiny curve with its trickle of water the upside down reflected trees move it deep and on the wind breezes it my hair, the trees and an endles water sea carries me endlessly down – it has no edge I layer my vision seeing nearly as deep as bone this water layer after layer of skimming reflection and mind imagination i layer i layer myself in sheets of reflection each as porous and sliverlike as each other just this skin upon this skin but lensed into the deepest pools bone deep reflection spongy and filled and unfilled moving and disintegrating, sticking and sticking to each other like flake pastry too common a thought like sheets of eyelash thin ice that is not solid

a glider over and I rise up from lying down – a lying down where my mind wandered most unusual – a cover of bird bones discovered on the ground under our hands a delight a wish bone, and back through branches I catch my eye, a real jab and I cut my face right through my eye  and i feel liquid slowly draw down my nose it is blood, a blood tear sun so bright and feel the bright red out of the corner of my eye and with it the orange of the stream and the blood in the end of the bone I need to bleed to cover the stream yet in the sun and we crouch again like two tiny kneeling birds close close to the ground hips curved in and sun warms our backs and we return again and again our experience surprising us even a nettle sting to go with the cut

april 5 2013

and what is under our feet and for each of us its two skulls have surfaced
where our feet treads I hear live lambs explore with their voices, comes trembling over curious upright squeaking seeking these sunken bones contain their beauties their slow management back to the ooze- another squeal clear but hidden just above the pond not knowing we are here unknowing who we are and the words ….in the sleet snow and….return…the mustard all stand at the churned…mud pond was here walked to…into water bones two skulls melt air…feet so long..invited..much moved, burned in water – just noticed a pen of mine left here long ago C remembers something falling my glove now…
not mine now I am happy to leave its disintegration to the pons too somehow it has journeyed away – completely different place
another lamb cry another lamb curious
we are twisted with mangled bodies blood held in coils full of water bits and pieces all parts twisted and mashed and clumped over the field just left, deterrent?, too new, too cold
my feet in boots are deep in this mustard mud I look at the jaw bone and eye socket of my near skull and feet juggled – too many mangled sheep on the field, a great sadness not our fundamental joy this wrenches this almost does not want to be captured some deaths are too violent, too unjust that questions arise again – death is there, death is life today its nauseating sickening as bloody as war, I understand the wrenching of  grief, the madness, the envelopment the sickening unworthiness, the mangling into the twisting , pulling, wrenching, ripping, raw rubbing rage lust   survival
this quiet place is sad today with a long grief the perfect ripples annoying in their beauty today
except raw except awe a pitiless stomach a withdrawing eye a pity
pity that almost makes one withdraw, remove, not want to sink in I don’t want to sink into this lacklustre cruelty worldly cruelty weather cruelty whatever is happening cruelty
I know this is my worship place but today prayers feel bleary and scattered like the innards, like the new flesh, blood intestines still full  eyes pecked twisted hooves blood held in plastic like inner tubes filling up with rain to run a lighter prettier red but manufactured – innards too much colour makes them too close and recoil happens from them and the self for looking except we are here to look to gather to immerse so I aim to, I try too, I keep going, the skull near my foot opening, moving its eye, looking up to the sky – the jaw full of teeth dirty as the inside of an unlocked pyramid, that dust of discovery after many years, here is silt is water made
I actually want to go closer put my face on the water near this skull be side by side with another skeleton share a water bed some sort of comfort that we all remain the same evolving bone inside that needs to go to earth to be buried again
lamb judder so high pitched and the wind moves high and the branch I am on wiggles I am alone with skulls
the voice of a new lamb
dead lambs
rain
sunk deep now into the falseness of my own stupid cries- one thinks one is over and able to be aware then you do the most unaware thinking it is in care but really just insecurity and righteousness – its like today – we are given death mangled early death instead of our beloved home to really be present is endless and changing
do we ever learn to deepen or as we go does it push us back with obstacles unexpected the sick taste in the mouth, the mottled mind that longs for purity yet
another cry close and high, one further away low answers, tucks in its sqreech I have never sat so long in snow sleet rain with my legs up to calves in cold water looking at a skull hearing lamb songs trying so hard to sink and yet held strung up on behaviour
another cry they are like cries though they are the voices

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The wreckage of the ewe hits us first, they haven’t moved the body
Gorged and picked of flesh, bones and fleece shockingly spread in the aftermath of a feeding frenzy. Sleet numbs our skin, as we walk a cold massacre unfolds lamb after lamb, 11, and another ewe, little flat heaps of black and white dotting the fields, decapitated, jawless, eyeless, arseless, inside out baby gargoyles, blood roses, We are silenced by the reaped carrion harvest,
digesting today’s lesson

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Omens
Superstition haunting
the scratchy edgeland
leaking disturbance

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Where are the comfortable old bones now?
Treading the sunken water
I kick the skull I had imagined, into being
I knew it was there?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wandering through the silky mire, Composting in watery graves
Submerged souls seep in silt cloudy pools dispersing downstream                             Drinking ancient life through a purifying straw, filtering the wild

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