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The bones of the old house Stand on an orchard. So. The bones and blood of my house are apples. Whole juicy crinolines of them. Here the trees are laden, are ladies with ruby fans pulpy with apple segments. Their fans speak the language of apples. I speak the language of trees, of apples.
I myself, though you cannot see it, am apple. My fingertips are apple-pips. My blood runs clean as cider blood. In the night the bricks rustle like the soft leaves of russets nestled at dawn as they protect the ground from itself. The earth has a way of answering fruit. It is the swing of a pendulum as time itself becomes edible. Over my dreams birds fly, call to me, "You are not alone. Let the tree that loves you ripen."
The birds protect the apple shell of my head on the pillow. Our eyes watch the leaning towers of trees sway in the wind, the long branches of people's dreams — the green skin of them unpeeling, unravelling behind their swollen eyes. We are turning, turning into the red pulse of our selves as we wake. Our teeth close on the creamy, unbitten day. Then. We are falling. Fallen. Our throats swollen with Autumn. The years pour through our bodies like cool, silk green water. Our bodies that are sinking, that are the crumpling of flesh. Only that. I am wearing my dream skin now, do you see???
Like the centre of fruit we have dreamed ourselves. Like the centre of fruit, we are ticking flesh. We are the perfumed opal cores of apples. Within me the apples that are golden hang — my apple soul, at last comes home.
Dear both Eileen called. You were out. Wonder why? Ha-ha. I have left the banjo in the fridge And scraped off most of the cheesecake. The woman was seeing red. Jesus. I was scared I don't mind telling you. And her plaster cast only just off on the Thursday.
She says — "I see Paddy McGintey is away back to His old she-goat." (Apparently, that's you Sinead.) Ha-double-ha. And why no rent left for me in usual place, While I think of same?? No-bloody-ha-at-all-ha. Am living on fresh-air and ciggies here. Can you not have some decency? Did I not get you the phone number of Christy Moore's ex-brother-in-law?
Anyway. Eileen says she'll see both of you in hell Before the band's left to youse two's Cheating bastards. And no, I don't know where she got the goat. He only answers to "Will you move your arse ye eejut, Before I move it for ye." I'm lying. He answers to bugger all. Keep your frigging paws off that last piece of cheesecake. See you in hell — yours (the other cheating bastard) Eithne Cecilia Cavanagh, your Ever loving landlady.
Foxgloves are a wild flower. I sleep on a bed of them. I eat foxglove, dream foxglove. I am foxglove.
Smooth, purple, pockets of foxglove fill up my eyes. New blood grows from my nails, washes itself into my hair. Foxglove, foxglove. The colour is insistent. It is my new colour. With the colour I am become strong. Tall. It is the colour I am fit for.
The foxglove is neither fox nor glove but keeps itself, in all, under wraps, part by painted part. The colour is as I would wish, I do not fear them.
I keep some foxgloves in my secret cupboard. They are as innocent as snow, sweet purple snow, they can put a spell on you. But do not fear them... they show you a simple face.
Beyond their face, they cup a wildness to themselves.
Some turn their faces to the bold sky and from it take new heart. Upon you, upon them I shall cast a spell of welcome. I live. I breathe. I can deny them nothing. I am foxglove.
Nothing ever happens. The postman's wife does not have cancer. The butcher's son is not a part-time burglar. The staff at the local Indian are not high as kites — seeing Shiva in every bowl of rice — and it's not even nine-o'clock. The daffodil bulbs are not stabbing each other underground, jostling and pushing to come up first, — no. Nothing is happening, and it's happening right here.
No tourists have arrived without maps in order to find themselves. No-one is looking in a mirror hoping to find their youth. No two people are lying to each other. No-one is stood outside the chippie's trying to think themselves thin. No-one called Marvin is about to divulge the secrets of his sock drawer. No-one and nothing is happening at all — least of all to Sally and Rupert Entwhistle of 2 Chestnut Crescent who have recently adopted an orangutan called Jim.
Nothing. Happens. Forever. It takes up all the space we would like to swap for something. None of the cows in the field are full of milk, their udders are heavy with emptiness. No tic-tac man in a small un-numbered office is counting the days to when he won't have to. Count. No-one is lip-reading this to a man who sells beach brollies. No part of the sky is made up of clouds. No-one running up a hill is putting their best foot first. No-one who wasn't brave ever died. No-one is packing a suitcase, writing a note, preparing to leave no-one for some other no-one. No-one is hoping for a child by this time next year — one they don't know yet, but who'll have their eyes. No-one up a ladder is wondering how they got there.
No-one is falling in or out of love. No-one is raising a glass to the future, saying, "this time next year". No-one is brushing a tear away. No-one is cocking a snook at the past. No-one and nothing is happening at all. And mostly none of it is happening. Right here.
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