Winter Trees

The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.

On their blotter of fog the trees

Seem a botanical drawing-

Memories growing, ring on ring,

A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,

Truer than women,

They seed so effortlessly!

Tasting the winds, that are footless,

Waist-deep in history-

Full of wings, otherworldliness.

In this, they are Ledas.

O mother of leaves and sweetness

Who are these pietas?

The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.

- Sylvia Plath

Limit to your Love

Hello, sadly I am in my final month here in London.

I love it so much. Today is a melancholic day, the weather, my mood, this awful cough&&cold I've got.

On the agenda: reading Caryl Churchill plays and books on Feminist Theatre, cuddling up with tea, watching a few films, watercolour painting in my sketchbook, listening to feist and bon iver.

x