Dorothy wasn’t sure the painter wanted to paint her exactly. He spent a lot of time staring into blank space, whistling strange tunes. Bored, distracted she thought, he won’t last long. She looked and saw his canvas covered in murky patterns. The pond, he said, for atmosphere, the criss-cross of light. I see, she said, but she did not.
He seemed more interested in the pond than her. The way the weeds catch the light, how the fish swim to the surface, they always seem to be asking questions. She nodded; she wanted to please him. Coming up for air to nip at the weeds, to nibble at my feet. Dorothy laughed and she felt light-hearted, her mouth open and grinning, her teeth showing. I must stay still. Why does he not ask me to stay still? He doesn’t think I’m beautiful, thought Dorothy. I am not beautiful enough to paint.
All this was a while ago. Most things so far have happened a while ago -- all the things we care about -- they are gone. The way things used to be. Our childhoods carried in a bag; young selves hoisted over our shoulder; a child ready for bed. We are so tired these days of all our carrying — ideas of ourselves outdated, outmoded — it is not easy to renew. Where will we go, how will we go --- forwards? I look from the window, and I see pollen blowing backwards, travelling down the river towards the weir. She will fall over the wall, the heron will get her, he will see her and wrap his claws in her. Make cotton slippers. Am I beautiful enough the heron asks, dressed like this?
Pollen is falling all around like snow. Something is in my throat. The heron flies over the weir. She has had her fill of fish and cotton slippers. There are moorhens to catch, new babies, fluffy chicks with dangling legs -- she will rip them from their mothers. The present is sharp-beaked, sudden and quick; a jab in the side of the riverbank where the snow gathers. Chicks hide there, red and black and darting. Undercover punks, necks bobbing. Oblivious to the past, to the present, to the disregard of their mother. She is sleepy; her mind has wandered elsewhere. She is building her nest – the wind has got at it – she will disregard her children, and although she makes a pretty picture, I will not paint her. Her indifference is savage; it tears me to pieces.
Dorothy looks up but the man has gone. That was all a long time ago, his figure, his form; she has nearly forgotten him. How his shadow filled the window. She looks out and sees that spring has come; a cuckoo has settled in the willow tree.
(From POND LIFE: a work in progress)