Disability Arts Online

The Dawn Chorus seeps into my consciousness with liquid joy. Night brought sleep, so I open my eyes with a question.

These days play out on a yo-yo string, some are stretched out towards the promise of wholeness; some like this one are curled in on the pain. And waiting an unfocused kind of waiting, between moments that I try not to fritter away. Yesterday comes like that when I wedge myself against the garden wall and paint a long view. And later I watch the birthday flags waving from terracotta pots and take a rain check on chocolate layer-cake.

Days, moments, that leave no memories, just quiet folds in the chronological order of my life. Out on the pleated edges is where the sun shines and creation swirls; and where hope still has a cheeky smile.

I know of no way to acknowledge the value of hours devoted to breathing through pain; no way but waking and living. No way to honour love and life, but living; being; creating.

Sensuous lines swirl
white on white, kissed
by the glass walls
of my house; embraced
by the Nouveau frame.
Day by day, week by week,
I wait
pressed against the glass
while the sun rises
Klimt gold
and a squillion snowflakes
dither and refrost.

Impatient for my
jewelled garden to emerge,
I stuff
armfuls of silken narcissi,
fistfuls  of fake muscari
into the waiting canvas.
Beardsley morphs into Mucha
waiting melts into spring.