"I was eventually to become one person, gathered up maybe, during a pause, at a comma."—Lyn Hejinian, My Life

//

Spotted, of late:

Cuckoo flowers, the lawn of a vacant house. Irish: biolar gréagáin, or “the bright sunny dainty”. Aka lady’s smock; Irish: léine mhuire or "(the Virgin) Mary’s shirt".

Bluebells, on a grave in a cemetery where fourteen leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising were buried in a communal pit under quicklime after their executions. Irish: coinnle corra,“tapered or pointed candles”, or cloigíní gorma, “blue bells”.

Purple tulips and yellow wallflowers, intermingled with small topiary cones in long rectangular plots in the aforementioned cemetery.

//

Walking around town, I note the latest tender flushes of green leaves, the number of nests in the rookery, the pink froth of every cherry tree. Sometimes on these walks, I suspect that the self isn't a bounded and immured phenomenon, but a host of impressions collected from its environment, gathering new sensations and images to replace the ones that had flickered and fluttered away at the edges. At times the self could be a leaf, a black wing, a breeze, even Spring itself.

//

On Twitter, a photo was posted of a public park in Dublin, where someone had roughly cleaved young cherry blossom trees with a hand saw. One wonders at how a person arrives in the place, no doubt dark and dank, from which they plan such diabolical acts, depriving others of what little beauty is afforded to us in this world.

<<