Tuesday, 6 August 2013

Tuesday Poem: Nightlines

My children and my children's children
are all sleeping under the same roof,
our bloodlines echoing through the dream-
time of this quiet, midnight house. The
cat curled in the hallway. Myself, a
foetal comma in a borrowed bed
too small for a guest.  Somewhere a train
rattles through the night, a siren wails
someone's misfortune, a restless child
talks in his sleep, and somewhere else
a parent wakes, and slides carefully
out of bed to listen at the door.

© Kathleen Jones 2013


I'm currently in England traveling to visit my children and grandchildren, in crowded, lively households quite unlike the quiet existence I'm used to now.   They live in cities and dormitory towns, while I'm a country mouse. Here, even in the middle of the night, there's traffic and, instead of the cries of foxes and owls, small children toss and turn in their beds. Once upon a time I, too, lived in a city, with a houseful of young children.  It seems a long way away now.

The Tuesday Poem  hub poem today is 'Where' by Paula Morris, a poem about belonging and traveling - and it's one I relate to very strongly.  My life is nomadic, and the concept of 'belonging' is one I give a lot of thought to.  Oddly, the Singing Over the Bones group has also posted a video about belonging.  Where I come from in the Lake District, sheep are 'hefted' onto a certain piece of land, unfenced and free to roam - they stay put and that sense of territory is passed on to their lambs.  People too, are 'hefted'.  We need roots, though in my case, they've become very elastic!

Where, by Paula Morris

Where are you from, I ask the waiter.
He is from Brazil, Poland, Florence.
Sometimes he is from Mexico, and I
say: so is my nephew’s fiancĂ©e.

In Auckland the taxi driver who lives in
Henderson is from Afghanistan. There are
forty of them there, he says. They love it, but
they have to make their own bread.. . . . .   Read More 

 Hefted - 


Hefted from Dreamtime Film on Vimeo.

1 comment:

  1. "a restless child talks in his sleep, and somewhere else a parent wakes, and slides carefully out of bed to listen at the door."

    this speaks to the parent in me - short and bittersweet!

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