Me, moonin’ in the glommen. [Look at me, saying silly things to the night.] [With an all-encompassing motion of her hands] Our igoldy sow, the furst t’ bloodburst int’ this silent sea. Past riverrun ’n’ turn o’ kelp int’ muddy moss, sea-y green ’n’ here. ’Ere! Sprit eyes o’ gold. In ghost time, behind us; osier ’n’ ’eather ’n’ ’ello, ducky. ’Oary boyos, sun-stricken girlie days. Blackysmith ’n’ Trunk’s Tavern. I hear the goldy lifey, the glommen lifey. Do nowt ferget dreamytime. Ferget lifey in rattlesnake, ev’ry chum cryin’ to death, ’n’ into ’ere, the greeny belch o’ ’eaven. Danderupping so to live on the greasypole o’ sprit friends. Sprits o’ cunty dell. Circle o’ greeny ’ome. Stars ’n’ loam, firs ’n’ spermy flower. Sprits, sprits, ghosts ’n’ pitch dark, buboes o’ the face ’n’ arse ’n’… ’n’ festerin’ lip ’n’ baby birdcry. Burst mouth, hairy brain ’n’ cradlepain. Goldy death, goldy backward seein’. [Motioning to her head] Me mossy brain is the backward seein’. Pitch dark glommen is dry sheb and rottin’ tarse. The circle is burst. [Softly, almost to herself] The circle is burst. [Our ancestors were the first to venture into this wilderness. They came over rivers, through seas, through mud and slush, thick woods to reach here. Here! Here we saw flecks of gold. In the past, the past of our ancestors, there were osier and heather and people said ‘Hello, ducky’. There were also randy boys and sun-filled, girl-filled days. There were blacksmiths and Trunk’s Tavern. I listened to stories of the golden life in the past and also the darkness of the past (or the dark life). I was told not to forget my past dream-life in England. I was told to forget life in the prison ships, where every prisoner cried until they died. Then we reached here: the green stomach of heaven. But you had to get your dander up, be prepared, full of energy if you lived in this place because of all the spirits. It is like living on a greasy pole, always on guard, nothing certain. We call them the spirits of this fertile valley. This circle of greenery we call home. Home is stars and rich soil, fir trees and fertile flowers. Spirits and the mischievous, even deadly spirits; but there are also ghosts and deep darkness, blisters and boils which grow on the face and arse, and there are harelips and babies which, because of this, can only make bird cries. There are also cleft palates, useless brains and babies born in pain. Death can be good, as can looking into the past. My old brain contains the past. Do you know what true, deep darkness is? It’s sterile cunts and useless pricks. Everything is broken. Everything is broken.]

[Looking at the sky] I cup me ear t’ the glommen bird. [I like to listen to the night bird.]