Bindflowers
Little Granddaughter says: 'What's that noise?'
Last week she said only: 'Noise!'
Language grows like shining mystical bindweed, crawls
around everything, confines, illuminates, defines, shadows.
(She still makes those silent movie star faces
though.)
'It's the A30,' Grandad says. 'Cars, brmmm brmmmm.'
'Oh, cars.'
Cars are soon forgotten. She finds a feather, and Dog
has hair.
'Doggle got hair,' she informs. 'Hair.' She pulls her
own strands, to demonstrate a connection.
'Dog has hair all over. It's called fur.' Granma can
be pedantic too.
'Doggle fur. Teddy!'
Weeds are flowers that grow in places where they are
not wanted. These words are not weeds: I think, language is a bindflower.
At the end of the green path, she launches the feather
into a tree.
'Wheeee feather! Bye!' And having released it back
into the wild, walks away up the stony path with the poise of a person who is
greatly skilled.
She is beautiful, Lisa.
ReplyDeleteOff to look up bindflower (to see where that language will take me.)
Perhaps of interest: http://www.osirisnet.net/docu/liseron/e_liseron.htm
ReplyDelete"Thus, the bindweed affirms itself as a vehicle of passage from one world to the other, in a form of horizontal transfer from the marsh towards the shore of the dead, which rises towards the sun, under the light of which it starts blooming..."
ReplyDeleteIt binds worlds together! Fertile stuff indeed! xx