I’ve been seeing daisies everywhere and hearing lots of people talking about them. They remind me of when I was a little girl and I sat on the grass in the top field, wearing my summer dress, linking daisies to each other in a chain. It seems like another lifetime, something that I am only vaguely connected to, like a dream that fades in the morning light and flies away in wisps as you grasp to retain the details. I read somewhere that each time we remember something, we actually only remember the last time we remembered it and not the original memory at all. That’s a bit sad, no longer being able to link directly to those times.
I notice my hands as I type and realise that it’s been fifty years since I sat in that field making necklaces and bracelets from those little white flowers. At what stage will I be old, or will I keep just being older? I remember being young, I remember being stupid, I remember becoming a mother and growing up fast but I don’t remember getting older. I believe that this life is a small scene in a much bigger picture so it doesn’t bother me to think of death as I don’t believe in true death. Energy when created cannot be destroyed, therefore I will go on; the puzzle is to what or where or when!
I spent the weekend in West Cork and most of the time I was walking in beautiful scenery or drinking, eating and sleeping, a thoroughly enjoyable trip. It gave me a lot of head space and in a wooded garden, by the edge of the sea in Glengarriff, I came across large white daisies, the very thing to set me off remembering and smiling inside. In every childhood, good or bad, there are daisies and they stay with you for life, perhaps through death and on into the next existence.
In daisy days our summers, lost
to history’s mist, where corpses dance
in twists and turns and spin forever
to maddening beat of lunar tunes,
let frosty whispers slip past rigored lips
and rioting limbs, contorted now by time
and damp, spring from earthy bed
of elm root. Whitened bones
lift crisply pointed fingers
to a brightening eastern sky
and lost moon. A harrowed sun
sows rainbows amid drills
of deftly sculpted silhouettes. Feuding crows
screech, their caws echoing across the skyline
of burnt ochre and midnight blue.
Faded summer crashes beneath waves,
blue and frothed green. A Skyhawk swoops
to lift its screaming prey, gliding
in circles of euphoric frenzy, then death
the final rhapsody, the end of daisy days.