Revelation at Pontins EASTER SUNDAY 2002
I thought I was hurt in my pride only,
When you plunge your hand in freezing water,
A bangle of ice round your wrist
Before the whole hand goes numb
Norman Maccaig ‘Sounds of the Day’
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 a rhythm in the rime.
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 a sign.
Not that I didn’t understand.
But that I would never understand.
I seemed to be a stranger there.
I didn’t know the refugee was me!
The past? It is shapeless, blind, a mute place.
No road maps or strangers passing with news.
The very idea seems cruel! This loss.
And is it not cruel, this vile thing
set loose around the houses? This abuse
of heart-skewering fear.
The nightsounds were lonely in the vale.
The clouds mere 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: Who knows?
I did not realise the refugee was me.