JOOLES WHITEHEAD

Dorothy

1802 – a dim cottage, candlelight, a woman by a window. Rain. Daffodils were our bond. Now I’m extra, surplus now she has moved in ... she ... Mother of Christ. Winter light, cold and hostile. The ring on my finger – for one night he was mine. Circular nightmares sweated around me, ringed, fenced in as sheep in a fold, sheep hefted to the hill, hefted to this cottage and her. Now it and he are hers.

Blackness. The mountains cruel today in their thunderous clouds which scud across the sky – spewing grey water, making black bracken brackish. Him – determined, stubborn, striding alone on perilous ridges, seeking ravens. Gone from me now. Boat stealings. Summits. Breathings moving closer, abandoned.

Breathings carried in the cries of crows.

Him climbing, joined by her, not me. Supped on hare. Nocturnal.

There seem to be three: one incants and mutters - talks of being followed, watched in his nocturnal wanderings and stealings. Ousted by her.