‘Light’ by Kathleen Jamie

Likewise, for Kathleen Jamie, the writing, the thinking becomes a happening-in-between, a happening-alongside:
Between the laundry and the fetching kids from school, that’s how birds enter my life. I listen. During a lull in traffic, oyster catchers. In the school playground, sparrows.
Being mother is the invisible scaffold to many of the texts in Sightlines and Findings, and in the moments that scaffolding show through it revises, or reshapes the sense of the text itself, revealing just how her ecological writings are pinioned by a maternal subject seeing perceiving the world. This trope is most insistent in ‘Light’ where a passage on the change of seasons, and the changing light is shot through with the cry of a child outside – “She makes a call poised just between play and fear” – turning it into a suggestive shard of reflection on the liminal instant being child, becoming teenager: “Filaments and metallic ribbons of wind-blown light, just for an hour, but enough.”
In Sightlines, Sort of Books, 2012