Eva Colombo, Music for water women, seventh chapter: The July privet
 
Eva Colombo, Music for water women, seventh chapter: The July privet
I walk alone along a privet in bloom hedgerow, at sunset. Into my big brown eyes the melancholy is like the muddy water of a ditch which at each gurgling seems to sigh recalling when it was rain that danced across the sky lit up by the lightning, incited by the thunder, driven by the wind. A privet hedgerow is a boundary which during a July sunset turns itself into a threshold since the scent of the flowers is so intense as to attract what is gone by and what hasn’t been yet and I am the only one who let herself being skimmed by the breathing of everything that is ever – living even if no one remembers or foresees it. It seems impossible but once there was a time when a woman like myself could come across a man capable of perceiving how much impetuous life flows through whoever welcomes the breath of indestructible life:
“Pagan baby, take me for a ride. / Roll me, baby, roll your big, brown eyes. “
Pagan baby, Creedence Clearwater Revival. A dream let me know that it was inspired by me, during another lifetime. But times are changed and I am alone now and silently I am daydreaming of talking to such a man again. I am daydreaming of talking to you again. Look: the red sun of a July sunset if seen through a cluster of white privet flowers is like a wine which doesn’t dim the eyes but sharpen them. And when the last sun’s ember will be extinguished and the privets’ shadow will be like ash I will close my eyes for a moment then I will spread my eyelids like the wings of the moth which feeds on privet, Sphinx ligustri, and with an enigmatical Pythia’s look I will whisper to you that when everything seems to end everything begins.
“Pagan baby, let me make your name. / Drive it, baby, drive your big love game. / Pagan baby, what you got, I need. / Don’t be savin’, spread your love on me.”
And looking at the waning moon mirrored by my eyes you will see that that moon is indeed the silver sickle for reaping the golden wheat which your soul has sown when you loved me in dreamland and you awoke hoping to come across me…
But times are changed. Nobody knows anymore that Pagan baby was inspired by me and I walk alone along a privet in bloom hedgerow, at sunset. And the melancholy into my big brown eyes is like the muddy water of a ditch which at each gurgling seems to sigh regretting the sky from where it has fallen.