All afternoon the sea was a muddle of birds
Black and spiky,
Down they went
Into the waters of the poor
They live on, for a little while.
God, how did it every come to you to invent Time?
I dream at night
Of the birds, of the beautiful dark seas
They push through.
I am thinking of the movie, The Hours. The story is of Virginia Woolf a gifted writer who is also depressed. The movie is dark , the woman forlorn. In the end she takes her life, weigthed down by the burdens of the world, she places stones in her pockets to weight her down as she steps into the dark waters. The indeterminable hours of her life could not be born a moment longer.
Is this where Mary is on this day? She can see beauty, yes, but she feels so alone. The embrace of beauty, of the dark seas, calls to her like a sieren to save her from the long march of time . Am I anywhere close to right Mary? Or am I writing for all of us in this long night, only the dying cicadas with me while others dream. But soon it will be morning, and there is just another hour to push through before a decent hour emerges to start drinking coffee. Even in the light, I’ll be haunted by the call of union, the light going ever deeper into the dark, for the two were made of each other. Two of which? You tell me.