Волны
’Iasknow,standingwithmyscissorsamongmyflowers,Wherecantheshadowenter?Whatshockcanloosenmylaboriouslygathered,relentlesslypresseddownlife?YetsometimesIamsickofnaturalhappiness,andfruitgrowing,andchildrenscatteringthehousewithoars,guns,skulls,bookswonforprizesandothertrophies.Iamsickofthebody,Iamsickofmyowncraft,industryandcunning,oftheunscrupulouswaysofthemotherwhoprotects,whocollectsunderherjealouseyesatonelongtableherownchildren,alwaysherown.
’Itiswhenspringcomes,coldshowery,withsuddenyellowflowers--thenasIlookatthemeatundertheblueshadeandpresstheheavysilverbagsoftea,ofsultanas,Irememberhowthesunrose,andtheswallowsskimmedthegrass,andphrasesthatBernardmadewhenwewerechildren,andtheleavesshookoverus,many-folded,verylight,breakingtheblueofthesky,scatteringwanderinglightsupontheskeletonrootsofthebeechtreeswhereIsat,sobbing.Thepigeonrose.Ijumpedupandranafterthewordsthattrailedlikethedanglingstringfromanairball,upandup,frombranchtobranchescaping.Thenlikeacrackedbowlthefixityofmymorningbroke,andputtingdownthebagsofflourIthought,Lifestandsroundmelikeaglassroundtheimprisonedreed.
’Iholdsomescissorsandsnipoffthehollyhocks,whowenttoElvedonandtrodonrottenoak-apples,andsawtheladywritingandthegardenerswiththeirgreatbrooms.Weranbackpantinglestweshouldbeshotandnailedlikestoatstothewall.NowImeasure,Ipreserve.
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