Richard g finch3/18/2024 A golden mosque with ribbons and skeins of coloured fish passing through and through the arch topped windows. And in the shadow beneath the island Sere sees something gleaming. No, the island floats on the water and has a stalk like a waterlily that anchors it to the ocean’s floor. He sees that the roots of the island don’t widen like a mountain reaching the ground. Down through greens and greens and deeper blues. The fish dived and with a heave the canoe capsized and the old man was dragged down, down into the deeps of the ocean. It pulled hard but Sere kept hold of the line and was towed, zig zagging hither and thither. A bite took his hook – a fish! Stronger than any Sere had hooked before. Sere gathered the last of his strength to take a final fishing trip and took his canoe out into the archipelago. The trees stopped giving fruit and the fish stopped biting. Sere told Diane that one time there had been no rain for months and months. A storm plunged down – Diane cowered in the bottom of the boat but Sere stood and laughed at the storm and in a little while Diane laughed too while the white rain tore the ocean to shreds. Sere paddled Diane in his boat through the swirling currents that sperate Alor from Pula Kepa. She wrote of a close encounter with a whale and of an old man called Sere who knew the sea. I wrote about those nameless birds that queued to sip the last drip that collected on the tap behind the house through the long dry season.ĭiane wrote letters about learning to swim in the warm sea, she wrote about the brightly coloured fish that populate the reef, just by the drop off. I wrote stories of life in a mountain town – baboons in the garden and camels in the marketplace. A few weeks later I headed to Ethiopia and she headed for Indonesia and so, in those days before email, we spent two years writing letters back and forth. If you do read this, please let me know, and let me know what you’re thinking.ĭiane and I met when she borrowed my guitar. I found myself back in that room at Sobell House in the hardest time of my life – surrounded by love but far, far out of my depth. I hadn’t re-read it since that night – it wasn’t an easy read. I have recently been tidying up the hard drive on a laptop that I fear may be approaching the end of it’s own life and found the text of the talk I gave that night. We played a recording of my wife’s song ‘A Little Fresh Air’ which she had written and recorded at the hospice with their music therapist, Tom Crook. We heard from Rob and Jackie as well as from people that the hospice was currently supporting. It was an extraordinary evening, for me at least, Doctor Rachel Clarke from the hospice was joined by Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris to talk about links between the experience of the natural world and death. Back in 2018, a few months before my wife, Diane, passed away, I was asked if I would contribute to an evening at the Sheldonian Theatre raising funds for Sobell House, the hospice who were supporting us through the end of Diane’s life.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply.AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |