Receive text from friend who lives up on the hills close to the moors, she tells me that the swallows are more active than ever with the good weather. The swallows and their young will be eating lots and lots, fattening up to prepare for their long journey back to South Africa. I hate to see the swallow go and I long for its return.

The washing machine is on the go. Runners pass the window. P upstairs getting dressed, N still sleeping. I wanted to write something about the migration of swallows and the migration of people, but the poetry isn’t there, instead I listen to the washing machine. After 7×7=49 days of childcare and the summer holidays I think my brain is dead. Dead brain. I had wanted to write something beautiful, poignant but there  is nothing.

I tried to explain the refugee crises to Naoise, I thought that it was important to try and talk to him. I showed him a film of the refugees walking along the motorway in Hungary on the way to Austria. He understood a little. What an amazing image it is. What amazing people they are. What a journey.

Last weekend of the school holidays. Some sadness and some fear of the future. I will have to face the future again when the children return to school.  Back to school for them. Back to searching for paid employment for me. Always searching.

I fed the robins oat cakes. They are getting fat.

Need to get out to breath.

S away at his dads, my friend away driving in his car, me away in my thoughts, P getting dressed, N sleeping.

The washing machine reaching its crescendo.

Space, need space, need to get out and breath. Agitated. Hate my home. Crowded and dirty and messy and uncomfortable and not at all where I want to be, but I cannot migrate with the birds. The children have to be sent back to the institution, back to the routine, and the fence and the tidiness of the other world beyond the home. I am tied. I am tied to this place even though its not tied to me. The studio will offer solace through the darker months of the year.

The washing machine cycle is ending, I don’t want to write anymore.


Migrants, refugees and asylum seekers, whats the difference ? by Alan Travis, 28th August 2015, The Guardian

All about my mother: the most Freudian exhibition ever by Nell Frizzel, 3rd September 2015, The Guardian



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