Tag Archives: Lovers

The Warmth in this bed, raised by a good night’s rest, is too seductive: I can’t flip back this quilt and let the slowly gathered candyfloss dissipate and dust into the wind. She reassures me with the perfect softness of her cheek when I prod her with the tip of my nose, wilfully escaping from world-at-large into the loving simplicity of our own little one. I’m not running, just snuggling here, but still I can’t hide: where I have to be is at the back of my mind – then boisterously stumbling through sleep’s cotton cobwebs to announce itself at the front desk.
         I decide to be late, and then it’s too late to just be late and I decide not to go. I’m not ill in any obvious physical manner (though I don’t feel well) – I just can’t face it. I remember I’ve forgotten before, mixed up shifts and what not, and decide I’ve forgotten today. The decision turns out to be a workable solution, one that means I don’t have to untangle the complexities of what I can’t face and why I can’t face it (at least for now). I just forget, returning to full body snuggles and semi-sleep.

         Companion comfort
         Can you feel the desperation in this calm hug
                                                                    Goodbye?

         Hello!
         I’ve laid here too long, it doesn’t help—
         Take me out in the sunshine for a walk.

Willow trees line the banks of this sweet little river, they evoke graveyards and drooping grief, yet steady and natural and stroking in the wind: sad but reassuring. We squelch over to them and walk for a while, parting their branches like beaded curtains – imagine a forest of willow.
         Sit on a bench by a pretty pond and take out our packed lunch; fork sun-dried tomatoes onto pesto coated sunflower loaf; watch a moorhen’s insistent neck-jerk as it propels itself through the water: “Did you know moorhens have no legs? That’s why they jerk their necks – like trying to ride a skateboard without touching a foot to the floor, or trying to make yourself weigh more by bouncing on the scales…” Believable lies are fun to tell and fun to find yourself believing: she smiles without feeling stupid, for I’ve touched upon the child inside.
         Two small girls run passed us giggling, elfish and magical and somehow unreal; then another two girls, trailing echoes of an adult’s shouted orders in their vibrant wake; mother dashes passed, apologising to us for some unknown but acceptable reason, looking desperate and foolish, the little girls’ innocent abandon and sense of fun seemingly unable to penetrate her concern – but part of her is simply enjoying the chase; and her concern is a pretext for play…

The pond and the sweet little river and the life of the ducks all calling to us: we want to splash the clean brown water onto our backs and ruffle it through our feathers; we want to travel these watery low-ways with small eyes and small bodies shining wonder onto the sights; we want to become ducks for the day and set about devising a plan that might carry us there: beyond imagination – or so far into it that it matters not.
         We build little wings out of found feathers and attach them fan-like to our ears. We paint our noses yellow like beaks and practise quacking at each other. We fill a large white bowl with some water from the pond, turned bronze and light-filled. We find a secluded spot not far from the source that splashes and bubbles and gurgles. The bushes hide us from prying eyes and deaden the soft steady sound of the drum (*bom bom bom bom*). We quack softly at each other. Our pupils expand to give our eyes the appearance of puddles of unknown depths stared into on a starry night. We lightly knock our beaks together and flick water from the bowl at each other, shaking our heads and ruffling our wings in preparation for flight. We continue banging the drum; slow, steady, soft; taking turns, giving life to the heart of this newborn imagination. We stare into the bowl, into the water, into the faces of the ducks we are staring back at ourselves… without noticing any transition: the reflection is gone, the sound of the drum disappeared.

A carpet of light slowly undulates; I watch the ripples emanate from my sitting place, extreme comfort; I feel perfectly supported all round, only slightly disconcerted by the droopy wiggles of my feet dangling below me in uncertainty. My left leg twitches and I slowly rotate to the right; I am met by the sight of my beautiful mate, reflective green flourishes marking the spectacular curves of her neck: “Quack.”

“Quack-quack.”

We swim side by side, an eye on each other and one on the bank and the sights beyond, effortlessly drifting; pushing slightly every now and then, or using paddled feet like rudders to stay on course, riding the flow with as little interference as possible; revelling in the beauty of our surroundings and the simplicity of living in this mode of being; perceiving anew this well walked river. Stopping to entertain some well-meaning children throwing bread into the water: it slips down my gullet and expands into a sickly feeling in my stomach – I give them a few golden quacks none-the-less (some of my best yet) and we continue drifting.
         Obnoxious vocal noise and loud music reaches our hidden ears as we meander into a busier area of these town-centre pleasure-gardens; a group of teenage children are drinking dubiously procured booze and egging each other on to jump the river; they spot us, bypassing our calm beauty to see only an opportunity to impress one another and shock the old codger sitting peacefully on the bench: a half-filled beer can sails through the air and hits my companion. A nervous fluttering of distressed quacks mixes with the disapproving mutterings of the fearful fellow on the bench. I get up and chase the perturbed teenagers: they laugh and jeer but know well enough to keep running from this odd character with his yellow nose, trailing feathers come loose, agitated by their quick release but soon calming into soft see-saws as they sail slowly to the ground, touched by the faintest gift of gravity.

My companion is nursing a bump on her head as I return, flustered and red-faced, having let the wayward teenagers off with a stern shouting, ignoring their insults-at-a-distance and turning away with as much grace as a yellow nose could muster.
         We take some time to present ourselves more subtly, wrapping the remaining feathers in the old cloth we cleaned our faces with and taking a few small sips of pond water to help us remember… the rest of the water is returned to the ground to help make the memory long.

Walking back through the willows we see the old man on the bench, he is standing now, the bench has a yellow ribbon warning ‘wet paint’ tied from arm to arm. There is a small pot of varnish with a brush balanced on top sat upon the nearby wall. He looks at us with a curiously potent mix of sadness and fondness. We say “Hello” and he acknowledges our greeting with a nod. I catch sight of a few words engraved in the plaque fixed top-centre on the back of the bench:

“Your smile would light up the day.”