PERDITA
Although I have entered the ancient heart of a wood –
and have circled it for hours –
I cannot find a source for
this crying of a baby:
a crying without a crescendo; without rest.
Suddenly, a lake’s broad face peeps through the firs;
and a white swan floats towards me,
looking me in the eye:
she climbs on to the bank as if to make for the
lakeside well. Thirstily, I follow.
Willing the water to rub from awareness
my nightmare of tears, I find myself
staring through refectory windows: staring past
meals at the hearth; right into the far, far corner –
into the howls of an old baby.
Instantly, as I become her,
I am sucked into the loud light, the pattern of
pains without centres….
Then, half separate, I stand at the refectory door –
and walk towards her; and take her to the
cradle of myself: to the room’s hearth:
the cauldron, the ladle.
Copyright © JENNY JOHNSON