Pwllheli beach, October 2019

Oystercatcher, flapping by. What do you know about Mother?

Mother is the way home,
but Mother will not guide you.

Mugwort, old and dry and purple and tall. What do you know about Mother?

Mother is a witch.

Brambles, creeping on the dunes. What do you know about Mother?

Abundance and resilience are the self-same thing
and mother is all and both.

Burning flames, out on the edge of the sea. What do you know about Mother?

Mother is ancient and ageless.

Seaweed, dead and dying on the sand. What do you know about Mother?

Mother is merciless.

Sea, ever changing, ever constant.
What do you know about Mother?

You cannot know Mother.

Sea?
Are you Mother?

Yes.

Is Mother full of love?   No.
Is Mother here for me?   No.
Is Mother here for Mother?   Yes.
Is Mother a guide?   No.
Is Mother a teacher?   no..
Can I learn from Mother?

  Yes.

What does Mother
have to do with
healing?

Mother’s huge legs
billow like oceanic
swell Mother’s arms
sea snakes, octopi,
the Juggler.

Mother will pound you
onto the rocks, over and over
Mother will bruise you
Mother will break you
Mother will fuck you up
Mother will make you cry
Mother will pound your stomach
til you vomit, on your knees
Mother will drum, drum, drum on your heart
til you can’t breathe.

Mother’s one big eye
– glassy and green like that dream you can’t forget –
peering out from Mother’s belly
blinks. A vortex
snaps shut.
Flies open.

Mother will send you round in circles
til you feel like you are going mad
til you fall to your knees
til you scream
til you sob
til you tear out your hair
til you laugh your fucking head off
because you did not know it was possible to be this sick of your story. The story you cling to. The story you guard, jealously. The story you become.
And only when you are done
feeling sorry for yourself
and only when you are ready
to tell a new tale
Mother will welcome you home.