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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 |
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