At the end of our small Welsh garden stands a big static caravan that came with the cottage. It’s quite old but comfortable enough. Since early summer I’ve taken to sleeping there on some restless nights. At first it was an adventure, but I’ve come to long for the enclosed, cocooning, space of the bedroom, the almost camping feel.
On my camping nights, the windy ones, I fall asleep to the sound of trees being moved and creaked by the blow of the wind. A small clock sits on the shelf above my double duvet covered bed. I hear it as I turn out the softly glowing bedside lamp above my head. This is my space. The repetitive tick, the whistle of wind, solitude; all combine to soothe me as I tumble into sleep and dream again…
Dream in a wood…
Asleep. Another wood, another chance. Good to be out and in again, forgetting winter’s soon to be numbing solemnity. A dream of spring around; underfoot, above my head, to left and right - my senses full of trees alive again with opening. Walking within the trees, so made from individual variation and not one the same or even close; each clothed in own and owned particular veil of eachness, I search.
The leaves have come, a sudden and astounding change to each and all as though sameness were blight, the enemy; and difference a friend. White flag in friendship I surrender and with the giving in and up allowed an entrance as they enclose me, a too late April fool searching for my donkey ears. Ever and always the donkey me, a disappointment, ugly, fat, and bastard child, the ass of asses, wished to death, regretted and dismissed, I seek and look and look and seek. She’s so much harder to recognise when clothed in green and yellow, vibrant lime, accessorised with flower and bud, made regal in copper. So much harder than before, when naked in her winter form – much harder, now returned in budding gown.
Bray on my fool, bray on – it is what she wants. Hate and bitterness, words and swears, scratch at me as I hunt. Where is she? Where is she? This is the place where only measured time before, I stumbled on her sleeping form and love. This is the place. This is the place? I search but cannot find. With her so draped and almost to invisibility, she evades me - although disguised I found her once, and might I not again?
My donkey ears flap, blown and moved by wind; I bray – eee-aww, eee-aww. Whilst somewhere in this assembled court, caught up in the dancing of the tune of spring - she watches as, ass of asses, I blunder all around her, snake eyed and spitting tongue. How could she be so cruel? I only ask to see her newly dressed, lost Dryad awake from deep drugged sleep, to dance the dance of spring with me again. But she, hiding away all covered, and in so dressing shy and turned, makes nakedness a harlot.
So - gone, vanished, taken in, alone - I dream and scratch the fleas inside these ass’s ears. Naked winter will come again; but spring?
And sleeping on I hear my mumble; “Where have you gone, where have we gone, where have I gone?”