1.
Months of dreamless sleep. I wake still smelling gorse flowers, implausible coconut in the heathland air.
2.
Next day, I read about the Dartford Warbler, which will perch “a gorse stem to sing,” which has “struggled with harsh winters.” Grey-brown sweetling, look out from this field guide with your too-beautiful eye. Why do I forget there is so much I haven’t seen, that there is such cause for singing?
3.
“Associated with Lugh, the Celtic god of light, [gorse] was believed to be a sign of hope in times of difficulty.” Have I ever felt so drained of color? Words that would be easy are tender in this open space. We shelter in little breaks from scraping wind. What I say seems difficult to hear.
4.
Varieties of grey in winter, even the evergreens turn silver in mist. What is one to do but burrow, keep their blood warm with wool and fire?
5.
Gorse shrubs are protective, keep the sheep in, keep the fae out. What is on the other side of spines I’m stacking? When I see it, will I say that it’s myself from whom I need defence?
6.
I have slept in my bed and still feel lost, wondering. You have slept and also wake to snow. What can I know of your sleep, your dreaming? I’m told to make a tincture, gorse against unease. I’m told the gorse appeared to cure my hopelessness. I know the obstacles so well, I could step around them in the dark, but I forget and fracture every toe.
7.
"common gorse was…collected from commonland for a number of purposes: it provided fuel…; was used as fodder for livestock; was bound to make floor and chimney brushes; and was used as a colourant.… However, there were a number of restrictions on its collection…only the amount that could be carried on the back could be cut for fuel.”
8.
Gorse spines scratch the skin to bleeding, but see what I have brought you dyed in lovely yellow summerlight. See the dust I mean to sweep from corners, the hearth-fire toward which I heap my back with cuttings. Isn’t any labour looking forward a form of love?
9.
I fell asleep to ice and wake to snow and wind that shakes and breaks the branches, last year's leaves weighting twig-tips. Still, the days are lengthening, and the yellow flowers of which I dream say that I will touch you. Eventually, I will touch you. I think sunlight. I think singing.
Attributive notes:
“Dartford Warbler Sylvia undata.” The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.
Donal Hickey. “The place of gorse in Irish mythology and folklore.” Irish Examiner
“Common Gorse.” The Wildlife Trusts.
Jennifer Browne falls in love easily with other people’s dogs. She is the author of American Crow (Beltway Editions, 2024) and some other stuff, too. Find her at linktr.ee/jenniferabrowne.