The pipe gleamed with the heat passing through
And once I rested my hand upon its bough
And felt the slow harsh burning of my skin,
Then I was warned not to touch it again
Amongst other things – she kept everything.
The sound of rustling beads hanging in the wooden frame
Would tell of someone entering the kitchen,
And through the numerous sliding doors one could find the
Deep square bath where ships would drown,
The pink plastic bowl used to rinse one’s hair when our bodies
Rested contorted upon the rubber floor,
Outside we could hear the wind whistle and ripple the paper screens
Whilst within their glass boxes white dolls gazed out in their open eyed sleep,
In the morning steady rhythms beat from a wooden knuckle and
Rose to touch the ceiling of the house and descend again onto a reed floor,
The stepping stones ran always to the house
Whether crushed by thick drapes of icy snow or unmasked before the summer glare
That lit up all the blood of the mountains trickling into open fields of velvet earth,
And when we needed to our feet would take us down the road
To a row of shops outside of which I’d stare at the dispensing machines
Marvelling at their hidden plastic treasure,
Then we would return and guide our bodies through the beaded waterfall
And sit round the table late at night and listen to the murmur of the village.
Catherine Kei Lawford 2008
Click the heading for a short videohttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVhj9znTGrg of the chimes played every evening across the village
