Had I not been awake I would have missed it: the wind abruptly blew the window open, sending a blank page to me – a leaf from the forest of my study. Also, a lynx who keeps returning to this desk where my fingers move over empty spaces – the pages of a thin, white notepad.
In an autumn afternoon scrubland or a summer field wet from evening shower, forest edge, roadside of a country lane hung with fog of a damp winter morning, it finds me everywhere, unexpectedly, uncalled for but not unwelcome, past the hollow reservoir of a tea cup, paws delicately touching the undergrowth of thought as it sneaks onto the plain of the page where it leaves its prints on leaves no longer clear and empty
as through the sluicegate of the point of the pen one paw peeps out. Then another. And another and another until the lynx is back again – the words are written.
With a line from Seamus Heaney’s ‘Had I not been awake’.
Published in Sheila-Na-Gig, Vol. 4.1, Fall 2019, September 1, 2019)