Волны

           Ishallhavechildren;Ishallhavemaidsinaprons;menwithpitchforks;akitchenwheretheybringtheailinglambstowarminbaskets,wherethehamshangandtheonionsglisten.Ishallbelikemymother,silentinablueapronlockingupthecupboards.

           ’NowIamhungry.Iwillcallmysetter.Ithinkofcrustsandbreadandbutterandwhiteplatesinasunnyroom.Iwillgobackacrossthefields.Iwillwalkalongthisgrasspathwithstrong,evenstrides,nowswervingtoavoidthepuddle,nowleapinglightlytoaclump.Beadsofwetformonmyroughskirt;myshoesbecomesuppleanddark.Thestiffnesshasgonefromtheday;itisshadedwithgrey,greenandumber.Thebirdsnolongersettleonthehighroad.

           ’Ireturn,likeacatorfoxreturning,whosefurisgreywithrime,whosepadsarehardenedbythecoarseearth.Ipushthroughthecabbages,makingtheirleavessqueakandtheirdropsspill.Isitwaitingformyfather’sfootstepsasheshufflesdownthepassagepinchingsomeherbbetweenhisfingers.Ipouroutcupaftercupwhiletheunopenedflowersholdthemselveserectonthetableamongthepotsofjam,theloavesandthebutter.Wearesilent.

           ’Igothentothecupboard,andtakethedampbagsofrichsultanas;Ilifttheheavyflourontothecleanscrubbedkitchentable.Iknead;Istretch;Ipull,plungingmyhandsinthewarminwardsofthedough.Iletthecoldwaterstreamfanwisethroughmyfingers.Thefireroars;thefliesbuzzinacircle.Allmycurrantsandrices,thesilverbagsandthebluebags,arelockedagaininthecupboard.