Bride of the Ouse | all falls down
a vignette for the death of Virginia Woolf.
Webbed flesh. Half risen dirt. Cold lakeward wind. Shivering reeds. Moonlight. A fox and her kits. Scurry. Skin. A layered cake. Sodden. Peeling. A jackdaw fluttering. Pecking. The tongue is still good. Light troting. A tug. Liquid. Bone. Deep red. Wine. White. Twisting. The younglings yap. A feast. More jackdaws. A rook. Screeching. The eyes are mine. Mine! Mine! Smell of burning. Faraway hollers. Festivity? No.
Men. Torches. Hurry.
Soft rustling leaves. Bloating. Rain. Waves. Rolling. A tug. Silent. Trepid. Crunch. Footsteps. Heavy. Deep breathing. White fog. Blinding. Crimson. Flourish. Faces. Flushed. Leaden. Bitter. Sleeves roll down. Soft steps. Gestures. Handkerchiefs up to the nose. Scowling.
Mice. Beetles. Ropes. Oars. Stumbling. Torches high up. A cough. A sneeze. Murmuring. Rigid. Pointing. Stooping. Kneeling. A nudge. More coughs. No wind. Missing. Writhing. Larvae.
Adeline. Adeline. Adeline.
Shaking. Wailing. Snapping twigs. Stars. Incense. Singing. Waves rolling. Rain. Patter patter. Away. Floating. Small fish. Great fish. Another wave. Down. Down. Down. Down.
A. Virginia Woolf
28 March 1941
River Ouse
