Хвилі

           ’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.