EASTER SUNDAY 2002 Pontins
The past? It's a frozen, foreign land.
A labyrinth of tourmaline-a dream
of black horses flowing out to sea.
Breaking the chains of memory
that tie us to the static of the land
The past? It is a strange and twisted tongue.
I cannot bend these chords to utter it!
Cannot find the rhythm in the line.
While fools found gold in crystal streams,
I rooted, ankle deep in mud, braying:
Who are you? Why are you here?
The past? That coldly-calculated joke.
Those idiots fell about the place side-splitted,
While I looked for help, for meaning, for a sign.
It was not that I didn’t understand.
It was that I would never understand.
Because... I seemed to be a stranger there.
The past? It is shapeless, blind, mute.
No road maps or strangers passing with news.
The very idea seems cruel!
And is it not cruel, this vile thing
set loose around the houses? This abusive
Nightsounds are lonely in the vale.
Smoke-rings of obliterated joy.
Oh these losings of familiar things!
These losings of familiar things.
These tales of the three rings.
And the first...shall be:
Of Spirit and Healing.