My early work is the fear of falling. Later on it became the art of falling. Falling without hurting yourself. Later on it is the art of hanging in there.
Some days I think I will become a nun,
Book in a convent miles away,
Cut off my hair, and dress in black
Wanting to purge myself of men.
I’d kneel and pray and chant a lot,
Lie in a narrow bed, devising titles
Of unwritten books: A Semiotics of Flirtation.
Love? Some Concepts of the Verb ‘To Sin’.
One thing’s for sure, by wanting you
I’m not the woman that I think I am.
I cannot eat or sleep at all,
Just think about your lovely mouth.
The eerie moonlight and the Northern seas
And hope my body’s still the temple
That you’d come upon, as if by chance,
To excavate a hundred years from now,
Burn incense in and dance and sing,
Oh yes, and weeping, worship in.
– Deryn Rees-Jones