Bog

I try to catch a sense of them before I am fully awake, before they disappear into the ether. The last one was centred around an ex of mine, an officer in the army, well he was then. He was young, as he was when we were together, a beautiful man but there was real knowing. Or perhaps I am being unfair, he was young and callow, I think, though his experiences in the forces had been hard. There was no real rapport between us other than desire. Anyway, we were travelling together, due to separate, I think I had to go for a job interview. The travelling was on foot, a road that we were being led down by an officious woman. However, the road, or the path was waterlogged and we had to veer off it into a boggy ditch. I had on my new walking shoes and hoped that they would hold out, my ex was less well shod and was growing distinctly irritated. The bog was marshy and fresh green grass grew up from its wetness. I wasn’t that perturbed, though I did ask ‘will we have to come this way on our return?’ Yes, said the officious woman.

I don’t know how to live, says the fictional Mary Ann Evans in a play I listened to on the radio about George Eliot and George Lewes. Nor do I. Not yet. I hanker. I hanker for peace, emptiness and simplicity. A cottage, a croft with white walls and a garden and wide open views. To write and sew and read and walk and to rid myself of this fear, this constant anxiety. Show me. Show me my home.