Memoir

River-wine, she sang, did Tea, into her fields of winter green and blue honey. She would sing down the mighty rivers of Africa, she would, she said, down Niles blue and wild and merry.

Twas the season of mirth, of lilies of the valley, of dawns’ fingers dipped with rose a-plenty. This world she carried in her heart, fired as the hearts of Christ and Mary, sacred hearts, blazing hearts, cherished hearts of lads and bonnie maids and carols past the shining stroke of summer’s eve.

She whispered into a man’s heart and a maid’s, and found oceans of time, oceans of God’s sweet eternity. Asters, startworts—the roods of daylight breaking in. Blue, like Mary’s light, still bathing. Blue, Venus rising to your occasion. Blue, stardust of the Virgin who weeps.

What wort would thou, Tea? Prithee, tell. Sing it star-shaped, and sing it gaily.