The Present Of The Past

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

world.

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.

The Outfit

Vintage 1970s Maxi Dress: bought and worn by my Mum when pregnant with my younger brother

The Soundtrack

Van Morrison: Astral Weeks

Photos taken by me last month using my little digital camera at 26 weeks pregnant