The Birth of the Aura

Once, due to Finland’s acute shortage of public toilets – in ancient times as now – a stray Goddess crouched in the forest, beneath the branches of her bird-feathered hair, to take a leak. Thighs and crotch levered over pine needles and soon-soiled soil, she hums a tune by a Stone Age rock band we’ve forgotten.

Then, from down below, she hears a howl and sees with a shock it’s a baby girl she’s dropped along with the usual stuff. Gosh, hadn’t even noticed, been so busy lately! Must have been that one-night stand with the stranger from the North, loud mouth but poetic eyes, who she’d laid with a laugh in a spare aitta, and who left her in the morning strangely longing.

And because she’s a Goddess, and ours are troubled times in need of stories to unbury good news, I’ll sing you a saga. She gazed with affection at the gleam and drool of the wailing baby sat in the mudpuddle with ants still swimming to escape a downpour they never asked for. She stirs babe and brown water with gold from her breast to shape a river of mixed fortunes – brass and muck, milk and fish, war, wheat, blood, wool, kings, merchants, artists, bakers, builders, weavers, nurses, milkmaids, soldiers, moaners, singers, queens, shopkeepers, farmwomen – a people who’ll always need very bright sun to see the gold all around them.

She looks at the child.

‘Run down to the coast, Little Aura,’ she says, ‘Grow a harbour for those at sea, a portal for those who need to flee’.
Stands up straight, adjusts her skirts, and strides away to make trouble (that is, be godlike) in some other place.

Aura, AmosLAB 2018