PETRICHOR (#SingingAsTheDarknessLifts 11)

PETRICHOR

 

Me and my brother on a farm holiday when we were little and me and my brother at Bletchley Park more recently.

 

I am a poet who does not like the smell of petrichor. Last night it rained enough to make puddles on the path, so the smell is not in the air. This pleases me. Instead there is a refreshing, just there, note of herb and I learn that fruit flies too are sensitive to that smell of rain on dry ground.

 

When I was at school one of the projects involved counting fruit flies. I do not remember the exact logistics, but think it had something to do with tabling the numbers with different markings on their rears. My turn one lunch time resulted in me wracking my brains for the knowledge I needed when I dropped the lid of the fruit fly housing and some of the numbers headed for the freedom of the laboratory ceiling. I didn’t let my group down, but I do think a fruit fly flew up my nose during the process.

 

Counting things and noticing patterns in the possibly unpatterned has always been part of my wonder of the world and my way of holding things still (except drosophila). Last night I had the absolute pleasure of being part of Sarah Connor’s book launch for ‘The Poet Spells Her Name’, and as well as reading two of Sarah’s poems I read ‘The Stars are Clays’ to mark the evening. This poem felt right for the occasion and seems to resonate with being still and holding moments. It was truly wonderful to hear one poet’s words in so many different voices last night and I am glad mine was there in that zoom room.

 

My week included a final editing session with Josephine from Black Eyes Publishing UK for my forthcoming second collection and there has been laughter and fun whilst ensuring the poems are set down well and readying for their place in the world. Other writing has centred around preparing my first essay for my coaching qualification with In Good Company so there has been a real mix of fiction and non. Although I find creative writing much easier than preparing essays I am definitely improving and, I am really enjoying the reading involved. I am determined to be the best coach I can be. I now know I could have helped myself with the essay a little more by writing my references down clearly as I went along. I like the fact I pretty much have a photographic memory, but finding some of those quotes again was like a game of hide and seek, and the words were hiding as effectively as my brother used to when we were little.

 

I haven’t finished my hide and seek poem yet so instead this time I will leave you with this one about me and my brother and the hole we used to dig in the summer holidays...

 

Digging that Hole

 

Day after day she let us dig that hole.

You made the sides straight,

marvelled at lines you called strata.

I just liked the way there was real orange

in amongst the expected brown,

how it looked sliced instead of dirty.

I disliked the crumbs at the bottom,

that never diminishing scattering

that I couldn’t spade out.

 

You said if we kept on, worked hard enough,

we’d feel warmth from the centre of the earth.

That we would know by laying our hands flat

on the bottom of our freshly dug hole.

You told me Australia was right beneath us.

It all seemed so worth digging for.

I pictured us emerging in a different country,

staying there until teatime,

coming back to tell mum.

 

Each time you pressed your palm to feel for heat

you looked hopeful,

silently inviting me to copy.

But I only ever felt the cold damp

of earthworms’ homes.

 

The first thing I thought of each holiday morning

was digging that hole. I pictured you

spade ready, jumping in, getting started,

swinging your loaded spade high.

I imagined myself up top

remembering that excavated piles

took up more room out of the hole than in;

shovelling the earth away as quickly as I could;

being interrupted by your sudden warning –

it’s hot, the lava’s coming.

 

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Here’s to the continued singing as the darkness lifts.

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