Moved.

From our big sky vista to a small Victorian brick yard, my pot garden is ruffled, but not dead. Plants, some bagged for ease of carry, are limp over algae concrete sloping to a small drain cover I already cleaned.

I couldn’t face a last fare-thee-well to my Cardiffian birds. I looked up briefly through the crack in the door, hand on steering wheel, as I lowered into the driving seat. A few gulls and pigeons peered down at me from the balcony wall, and I felt rightly judged. That was it.

We have committed a form of ecocide. Or rushed translocation. I hope the latter, although hundreds of insects, worms and slugs still exist between rubber tiles to fend for themselves for however long possible. The bats will hunt over the place where the pot-pond thrumbed, and they will find nothing.

Some small fauna came with us, to mix up the gene pool here in Hereford. I have seen them around the bags of home-made compost my brother, sister-in-law, and their son, kindly dragged here with all their powers. But there are cats either side of us now. Pretty, wirey, wiley. We’ve cuddled already, yes, but I know there won’t be birds here because of them. Perhaps they catch rats. I saw a big one, dead fresh, eyes still bright, just up the road. I mourned her as few would.

I don’t know what comes next, fully. Box and bag sifting through sore memories. Weight loss. Pandemic has brought me a new mental health worry.  Covid19 threat requires a lower BMI. My SSRI Sertraline causes weight gain. My anxiety will have to rise to survive.

To a degree, I am still hopeful. I have to be, because there is no certainty. Hopeful, to have a chance at further formal studies. I am raw, and more-than-half expecting failure ~ the type of expectation developed to protect oneself from the colossal let-downs that seem inevitable.

So much so, I think that I can no longer relate to success as any sane person.

I am fifty, surviving traumatic bereavement, divorce, financial insecurity, Bendog death, hysterectomy, cancer, treatment, a furiously broken heart, publisher and scholarship rejection, Twitter maelstroms, idea-appropriation, pandemic, major surgery, and with my daughter about to launch herself into sixth form after, and during, a very uncertain time.

But I do have life, awildians, a rental, siblings, and most important to me, I have my beautiful daughter. I just want things to go well now for us. I think I will be happy writing here. And all else that I can do. We have more space, more rooms. We are already making it ours.

~~~~~~~

 

 

 

Flame quick, then saunter-scinter

I am light and quiet, until I am lonely.

Hear me yap

Through gaps

In closed trees; minds

Pad-foot through wood bush

Or big, barley acreage,

And fluffy clouds.

 

I lick when hot.

Strike when not.

 

I am always here. Remember me.

 

 

 

Play-dance in moss, then burrow

I am low and slow, until I am busy.

See my shoulder

Strong under boulders

In berrylands; hands

Bare among the ramsons, digging

Or wormeries under oak,

And gentle rain.

 

I sleep when hot.

Dig when not.

 

I am always here. Remember me.

 

 

 

Silver slim, then swimming long

I am ribboning, until I am hungry.

Smell the hormone

On wet, pewter stones.

On joy-mud slopes; toes

Roll-spine and tail straight above flow

Or nursing kits in alder holes,

And thundering.

 

I fish when hot.

Vanish when not.

 

I am always here. Remember me.

 

 

 

Silken glide, then nested heather

I am sky-barrelling, until I am broody.

Taste the lizard-prey

On lazy, lichen days.

On Scots pine and sour grass; tongue

Stalling wind, talons open to land

Or hatched chicks from rarest shell,

And heat haze.

 

I rest when hot.

Hunt when not.

 

I am always here. Remember me.

 

 

 

Flicker wing, then tilted peer

I am feather and soft, until I am angered.

Touch this red

On twigs overhead.

In thin hedge or fence pole; soul

Ruffle the dead-leaf, and pull the worm.

Or mealies in copper-cat gardens,

And blizzards.

 

I bathe when hot.

Fight when not.

 

I am always here. Remember me.

 

 

 

Sleep-fur-curl, then open-lands

I am twitch and edge, until I am running.

Dream my fears

Beneath wheat-ears.

In dips, hide; eyes

Burnt orange, like ancient fires.

Or green waves on rounded hills,

And gales.

 

I pant when hot.

Box when not.

 

I am always here. Remember me.

 

~~~~~~~

 

All available as postcards to purchase in packs of six, coming soon. Thank you!

 

~~~~~~~

 

 

 

We are bearing witness in the English Channel and other places around the world to the natural movement of living beings, often with young, who are fleeing from their homes, from distress, seeking a flourishing and safe future in new bioregions, places.

I feel it’s time to recognise the HUGE event it will become. I wish not to describe any difference between refugees, migrants, alien species. But the reasons for this historical event are vital to the Anthropocene itself, and dripping with searing questions/answers.

I am simply reflecting on the beginnings of something colossal ~ geological.

Meanwhile,  global planning and compassion are moral imperatives, otherwise xenotrauma becomes an existential crisis in itself. Obstacles are many. Extinctions. Cruelty. Starvation. Anger. Mass adopted endemism will be forquired even if hopes are realized.

Crisis upon crisis upon crisis.

Megwalia.

The great movement of living beings (air, land and sea), seeking safety and security during the Anthropocene. Caused by human fear, greed, racism, poverty, drought, flood, political oppression, and ecological collapse, and, in turn, the ethics, values and actions that caused them.

Homo sapien and Tere sapien lives are effected/affected, in the places abandoned and the places of refuge, from blue whale to human to flower to microbe. Suffering and death, wellness and life.

From PIE roots:

*meg- meaning “great.”

*gwā-, also *gwem-, meaning “to go, come.”

and,

*lia, as in paraphernalia, Mammalia, regalia, etc. it represents Latin or Greek -a ~ plural suffix of nouns.

Megwalia. 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

 

If you are already nawoke, what was your gateway in, your epiphany event?

~~~~~~

 

 

Cancer. Pandemic shielding. And now post-op recovery. I have spent a great deal of time this last two years trapped behind glass. Sometimes, unable to use all my senses to the fullest, especially in relating to my kin (human or not).

Windows, laptop, TV and phone screens shield me in my vulnerable state, at the same time frustrating me from my usual state of being out and in nature. But at least they offer a thread of attachment to the natural world. Sometimes, it is watching my pigeons on the balcony, through double-glazed patio doors. Sometimes, it is simply staring at a photo of a clear blue sky on my iPhone. Or, through my bedroom window, observing a vast cloudy dome full of circling swifts readying for adventures south.

At times in life, it can feel bizarre and extreme; looking at a mountain through plate glass whilst sipping coffee in a cafe, high up on a cable car run in the Alps; peering out at a vast desert through a jet plane window.

Sometimes, it is simply watching nature programmes on TV,  cupilustria  present as an ache throughout my whole being.

There is no obvious noun in English for this state of being. So I have come up with something new.

Glas ~ Welsh for colours in nature (green, blue, silver, grey); also English glass from PIE root g̑hel and g̑hlō; old English glæs, glass and glǣm, to shine.

Cella ~  Latin for small chamber, inner temple. Somewhere enclosed, a form of captivity.

Glascella ~ Noun. A state of being. Trapped behind glass or screen, unable to access directly the wonders of nature that can be seen or heard on the other side. Seeing nature with an extra sheen.

Examples:

That night, on Skype, I was in a state of glascella, wondering if I’d ever touch your face again.

Looking at the birds through the rooflight, glascella overwhelmed me, and I decided to plan an escape to the hills.

I felt a deep sense of glascella as I watched the programme.

~~~~~~~