That green, green caravan.
Chipped paint and the smell
of burning sausages.
A carpet of wild grasses and flowers
spread before me, more majestic than
any red velvet line.
How I love this place.
The placid horses in the adjoining
field watching in bemusement
as I place my spindly eight year old foot
onto Titania's carpet
and throw myself in the air.
The fauvist ballerina, all arched
hands and pirouetting limbs,
flying into the sky
and then rolling into the earth,
grasping fistfuls of grass as if
readying myself to consume the
A haze of Beethoven's
Pastoral Symphony in my
ears, my eyes, my mouth. I can taste
its mellow honey.
My mother claps her hands
in smiles, beautiful tanned gypsy
woman icon in cheesecloth red.
Perhaps one day, if I laugh enough,
I will be that woman.
Now is all preparation.
I am singing as I dance,
I am embracing the air as a trainee lover
and it plays waywardly with my
dark curls, blowing them up high
above my head so that I grow a tall crown of hair.
Queen of the flowers.
I feel beautiful. The boys join in,
moving their bodies like mad
little warriors fighting against
an unseen force.
This is my freedom. Great blasts
of joy lift me out of
my insignificance and carry me on the wind,
heady summer carriage of hope.
The bonfire my father builds burns holes into the dusk.
Happiness poem written by me (and published in a national anthology) in 1999.
Vintage 1970s Maxi Dress: bought and worn by my Mum when pregnant with my younger brother
Van Morrison: Astral Weeks
Photos taken by me last month using my little digital camera at 26 weeks pregnant