Letting go
I play the songs over and over, so I could
hold on to theirtime, but the frayed roots
untangle the ties that bind. My music
is not their music. Songs that stroke
at my heart is not what they hear.
They’ve composed new lyrics so quickly,
never imagining that their rhythm
would surge so far from the confines
of my making, the safe borders
within my musical score. The passage pervasive,
confusing, but it was not my intention.
Hard to detach my limbs, to surrender the trees
to the forest, the saplings I once thought
would never grow past my clavicles;
the cradle where leaves turned autumn,
but I only ever saw spring.
“Being at home can be fun, insulating, relaxed, boring or isolating ... depending on how the day is going.”*
School holidays are almost over in my part of the world – six long weeks of noise and squabbling balanced by hot, lazy days at the beach or the pool with lots of daring exploits and laughter. Many of our days were spent at home, basking in simple pleasures like baking, playing games or outdoor pursuits – trying to relax the everyday routines of school-morning bustle and ‘having to be somewhere on time’. However pleasant, I must admit to being relieved that life gets back to normal next week, and I can reclaim some of my own time for writing again!
* From Being Mummy by Anne‑marie Taplin published April 2007