THE AGEING WOMAN AS ALCHEMIST

Dry souls are wisest and best. – Heraclitus

These days, more and more, I wear my pointed hat 

and care nothing for those striplings who would mock me.

Close-closeted, by night, I inscribe my coded symbols,

hear the voices of my ancestors whisper on the air.

I prepare, I prepare. 

By slow degrees I engage in the piece work of starlight.

Projects, novelties excite me less as the children of Nyx draw me in.

And in time too I will build me a fire of dry twigs and the skeletons of leaves.

I will burn off in clouds of simple steam all that great weight 

of the too long unforgotten that pulls me ever deeper down.

Passions that bit deep, the well-spring of old griefs,

they pollute my noisome soul with their clamour. 

No more will I be tethered to this teeming swamp:

hollowed out, my heart burnt out, now I am for burning away.

And as old glue dries to dust I find I cannot adhere to things.

Left without substance, without juice and flesh, 

the bones of my being are laid bare.

Stripped of my follies, my prides, my tears, I am reduced 

to the rock salt of my knowing.

I fear a few grains are all the wisdom there is. 

See. It is blown upon the air. 

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley