23 September 2003

THE SUN HOTEL, DEDHAM, 1954       Awake to the hysteria of bells - medieval laughter out of my stained glass dream.   Paddling Daddy's slippers across bare boards (as black and ancient as the mud   that silts up the Stour), I reach the leaded window. Beyond, the church squats on its bones,   brooding music.  Hymns are hatched stillborn; organ voices rage in vain, quelled by the crowing of the bells.   The street in both directions is innocent of cars.  Phantom mist - an atavistic veil - blurs outlines:   passers-by are cloaked and cowled, pacing the tracks and byways of their ancestors.   My child's breath smokes the glass.  Morning thickens. Even the light seems ancient now.   Yawning, I curl back into a tumulus of sheets. The bells cascade, mocking the shape   of my few years.  I sleep and now, in the mapless dark, my green heart beats faster.   Mine is the steady pulse that animates this room; its beams draw new sap   from my source.  Plaster, lath and tiles expand; the house tests its roots.   The bells rejoice  a continuity of mornings. This, the moment and the lost years are swallowed in their shining.   12:46:04 AM    Mmm? []

© Copyright 2004 Dick Jones. Last update: 24/01/2004; 23:08:33.