Paddy Fields

Bath water ripples,
Reflected by candlelight on herring-bone tiles, 
Dancing. 
As the rain falls steadily overhead. 
Heavy drops pattering on the open window, 
Steady in the darkness. 
Downstairs, in the left-hand corner of the house, 
Just behind the boiler; 
A patch of damp creeps up the old stone walls. 
White paint and plaster bulges, 
Crumbling to the touch.
And I remember that every November, 
It feels like this. 
Like the house is drowning and taking me down with it. 
Suffocating in a sump pool of mud. 
Or being sucked slowly into a sink hole in the Earth. 

In November,
I don’t know how to keep my head above water. 
I am heavy.
Sinking, submerged up to my neck in greying water. 
My body soft and bloated, aching all over, 
So much pain in my bones,
Seeping liquid.

Returning home, I step over the threshold 
And burst into tears. 
I cannot tell whether it is relief at being home
Or despair at coming back here. 
Grey clogging the shadows and the air. 

In November,
My home does not feel like my own. 
Like the rising water invites in all the old stories and folks that lived here. 
That we are not alone. 
And I want to clean and clear it all, let the air in, let the old energy out. 
But there is just more rain.
And a friend tells me that she read somewhere, 
That they could plant paddy fields in Somerset now. 

And I feel it in my bones, 
That I will never live in paddy fields.