She lives in this far away house
above the clouds. She is so light
she leaves no footprints.
She seems to check on every blade
of grass, every flower.
I can't imagine what she does,
where she goes, or even what she is!
Is she that child, that girl,
that woman, in the Song?
No. She is in such silence,
cutting potatoes with those small,
unmanicured hands, with such peace
in such unusual fragrance.

But sometimes her music puts fire
into the air, the bluebottle
and mosquitoes pack their bags
and leave, then the clouds come up
the steps to dance in through the door.
Not like me,
who came like a drunken moth
in the night, to where that child,
that girl, that woman slept.

This poem by Ollie Halsall, written six
years before, was handprinted for his
family on the day his ashes were
brought back home to Deia.

June 9th 1992