Christmas this year was owls and turtledoves and books and yards of ribbon, cold turkey and salad and chocolate straws and cherries. Ginger beer like champagne and christmas kisses (but no mistletoe) and gold edged tea cups in pink boxes and absoloutely perfect.
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They don’t understand, when they give it to you, that they bleed out all the joy. That stars become specks of sand and flowers fade to paper cuts. Magic should never be homework, then it wouldn’t be magic. Homework de-magics things, you see, even if you write it with quill and yellow parchment, it comes out all inkblots. I need to know about ships, and about conjurers and manticores, but I just want to play outside and read my books and sing. Forgetting shoulds and s’posed tos. It never goes away, you know, even when you’re all grown up, they just stop checking up on you. Somehow that makes it harder.
58 commentsI am sitting in shadows and eating chocolate biscuits because it is too bright outside. The sun singes the leaves and makes the pavement hot to run on. Patch and I watch L’Ecole and I tie ribbons in my hair. My christmas tree has white leaves with gossamer film. It doesn’t snow here, it never snows, but I can pretend.
p.s. I made a little film for you, because I couldn’t just photograph it. The music box is from Claire.
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It was beautiful and true. I miss them already, especially Alexander (he was my favourite) I want to go back again soon. Even if I cry an ocean on the way.
Can you see the Ship? He said. The Ghost ship on the sea. It comes so very near some days, it will come one day, for me. I can not see the Ship. I said. Out beyond the waves. But I can see an island blue, where I shall spend my days. When my ship comes in. He said, waiting on a breath. I will live my dreams, you’ll see, and die a hero’s death. There in paradise. I said, my little heart on fire. I’ll find the wishing fruit, bright red, and have all I desire.
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These are my new neighbours, Mr William Wagtail and his lovely wife. They are singers by profession but have decided to settle down and raise a family. I like to listen to them rehearsing while I brush my teeth.
I think some of us are very fragile people, pretending to be big and strong and some of us are very brave people, pretending to be small and helpless. Only I’m not sure which one I am.
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Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone ;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.
In her garden she grows gloves for foxes and snow stars for the winter queen and spanish bluebells for faery sleighs in the neatest rows you’ve seen.
Beneath the Erlking’s bower, the golden dream fish play, she feeds them bread and gooseberries, sings to them every day. If wishes were fishes, if fishes were wishes, her mother used to say.
She has style. Of course I love Lavender too and we can’t forget Miss Honey (except if I was her I would have stayed in the pretty little cottage with the honeysuckle.)
I’m sorry I have been away so long. Work has been swallowing up my hours like a tigershark. I miss taking photos, but I am still writing. I’m writing a story about a boy, I hope I will finish this one.
It is four sleeps until my birthday.
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I want to bottle the scent of freesias and give it to you, all my childhood picnics in an amber vial. That you may never be lonely in winter or forget the honeysuckle spring. I know it’s a big bad world out there but there is a paradise as well, a patch of blue sky between branches that appears as I swing-wing on my rainbow hammock in the garden green. Don’t cry, Ladybird, lift your little wing-cases and fly.
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