Winter Solstice
Bunched on a train travelling from Manchester Airport,
I listen to a handpan meditation meant to reset
my nervous system and sip a bottled meal
I knew would give me stomach ache.
Places I'm familiar with from the windows on this train
are made strange by fog, and I sulk into my scalding tea
because I'm not out with the land while it's othered.
***
Is it expensive in Iceland the taxi driver asks,
his accent London etched. Yes, I say, very.
There are bank charges still to come.
I'll forget about them and be stung
in a couple of months.
He asks if there's Uber in Iceland.
I try to explain taxi companies
on the island are akin to the mafia.
I don't think Uber will get there.
But they've had a Starbucks
for a week or two, so who knows.
Money is one reason I can't live there, I tell him.
Another is the absence of trees.
Nature is important, he says.
It isn't so bad here if you get into nature.
I tell him I don't drive, making nature inaccessible
without living most of my days on trains,
then I blurt out that without nature I'd kill myself.
The silence between the front and back seats
is dense, like a mouthful of Christmas cake.
After a couple of minutes' drive, we arrive at a house
I can't call home where I live next to people I'll never know.
The taxi driver hauls my storage container of a suitcase
from the car. I'm embarrassed about its heft, but slightly less
than usual because it's Christmas and everything is heavy.
He wishes me a happy Christmas.
I thank him and say the same.
Before he sets my suitcase down, I scan for dog shit,
the scent of which is harrowingly ripe.
***
There aren't any Christmas cards on the doormat,
my email inbox, though, is bloated with festive greetings
from companies whose bosses certainly own country homes,
and whose ceiling-skimming trees won't be artificial.
Blessedly, there's no letter on the mat saying I'm late paying
council tax, or for the water that must be chemicalised
before consumption, water my Icelandic ex-boyfriend
couldn't drink without retching.
All that's on the doormat is a leaflet emblazoned with HOPE.
I immediately consider creating a radical zine from it.
From the gut of my suitcase, I excavate presents bought
while happy, an experience provided by ADHD medication
prescribed to someone else.
***
I duck out to buy almond milk from the newsagents
and see the sky isn't dark but burns a toxic tangerine.
There are no stars.
In the sky above where I wish I were on this winter solstice,
I know the dark is a deep bowl, and the stars hang so low
that if I were to go up on tiptoe, I could pluck a few,
which I'd kiss, then, light and all, swallow whole.
A Wyrd Of Her Own 