The river is close, bounding over the rocks and into the air, sunlight glittering inside its body. With dreamy eyes we watch the day open, as the sun roars into view, its light cascading across these rich fabrics. Emeralds glisten in their gold settings, the blood of the earth drawn up into their crystal cases. Noble bodies sojourn on the grasses. They suckle on quails roasted and basted with honey and salt, the fat dripping down their chins. Children run in circles, around and around, swinging each other by the arms. The adults have forgotten their circles, unless they come in the form of crowns or coins. They know only the hard angles of the square and how it dominates the wild unpredictability of edgeless nature. Ever mutable and free of form, it is we who must control and constrain this squirming infant. Put a pillow over its head and press, until it is done moving in ways we do not like. Once dead, it is ours to animate with silken strings. And yet for all we fear of the wilds, the rain and the cold, the wind and the darkness, we find ourselves yearning for its open spaces, free of hard borders. Smothered by our own security, we rattle at our own windows, as if it belongs to some jailer, desperate to escape. We paw at our own doors, beg our own legs to take us, as if we do not master these things. We must love our own cages, for if we don’t, why did we build them? And why are they still here?
Paddy Dobson
29th March 2021