In the geography of your eye
Discuss the decline of the grid
In the wetlands of Europe
You sit on your bed
Watching the marching whales
Composing their tales
(you send me an excerpt)
The ancient man was lost. He was heading deeper into my introduction when he was approached by his father who held him in his arms. Neither wept, no-one weeps in their imagination
This tale was called
The Orchid and the Moth
after the drum bats of the story.
No bearded men were noted in the title
This brought me great comfort to me
We were again in proximity
You have named your street
After a town on a distant island
I will not visit your home
Like you I feel no nostalgia
You have deprived
A poor man of his living
With your thin-wish cakes
Both he and I are grasping thistles
Amongst your vines
Our palms bleed
But your wines are bitter
The House in the Fenlands
We lived together in a house overlooking the warm sea. We named the house The House in the Fenlands because we both had dreams of the fenlands each night.
Neither of us wrote in this house because of the beauty of the sea. We only wrote in our dreams
It was near a village called Esther Collencinni
This was not the original name of the village, it had no name. Its name had been forgotten by the priests. Esther named it after herself.
The priests glad of a new name agreed and from the day of our arrival it was known as Esther Collencinni
The name soon appeared on maps of our adopted country. There was great celebration and many olives were buried in the sand.
The name of the village did not appear on maps of the fenlands which caused us great sorrow.
The priests dug ditches and small canals but neither of us wrote as the beauty of the sea was overpowering
I collected olive stones and began to sculpt them
Esther posed naked for the priests as they supposed that all women came from the fenlands. It was only later that I discovered that all the priests were without sight. They had lost it when they looked at the beauty of the sea.
Neither Esther and I were affected as we always thought of the fenlands. I encouraged the priests to think of the dour landscapes and slowly they recovered their sight.
They considered it a miracle and soon our house was a place of pilgrimage. Icons were raised in places of worship with our likeness displayed. We sold our clothes for relics and became rich.
Yet we did not write and without clothes we returned to the fenlands where we began writing about the beauty of the sea.
Leave only traces
The thinnest film
On polluted waters
That is the way you have drawn me
I should be full of resentment but after seeing the millers cross I set my sails and learned to fly
In time I delivered the nine loaves to the nine fields and wasted no corn
You just shatter words
Zi g az
leaving them with little meaning
in comparison to you I am a giant
You bring a gasping trout
to our meal table
I ask you why such a splendid fish should die
You remain silent and return the trout
to its river home
A group of children pass us singing
with funny features “
The last in the group
the smallest child
throws a harmless stone
into the waters
“We are the children
you are the teachers”
The children leave still singing
We await the ripples of deliverance
The Sandcastles of Finland
On our return we are summoned to the bedside of a dying nun. She wishes to know of the land next to the warm sea
And of the village named Esther Collencinni
She dies before I can start so I write an account on the walls of her cell so that the story may accompany her.
I called this story The Sandcastles of Finland after her mother country and wrote it in light pencil so only she could see it
We returned to the land of the priests next to the warm sea but found nothing. Our house did not await us and there was no longer a village named after you.
Everything was covered in a dry grey pumice
I enquired whether there had been an eruption but was told that no volcanoes existed and that there had always been a covering of dry grey pumice.
After days of study I found the bay where the blind priests had painted your naked likeness
There were no longer any priests and the sea was of ice and supported no life
I lifted the shroud of pumice and dug deeply into the shallow sands but I found no olives so joyously buried.
Our memories had been discarded
In time I built a great house above the bay. I begin to write once more and record all that I have seen and heard.
It was here that I met you and agreed to call this work Esther Collencinni