Gerry Jacobson

Yurt in a Fug

The yurt is in a fug: people are milling, talking and cooking, eating and drying, booting, unbooting. It was a long walk today in pouring Wiltshire rain. I sit there in damp clothes, unable to move. Some people are massaging each other. I want to be part of this scene. I feel I should give; I know I’ve got good hands. But I’m tired and uncomfortable. Someone who’s next to me on the crowded floor, sees the rough skin on my knee. Well, I have been in shorts for a month, living on the ground. She rubs cream into my knee. Looks at me with a quizzical smile. I’m forced to receive.

wood smoke
at twilight
the snugness within