As always, one tires, and I'm tired of my youthful voice now, plangent and yearning, dripping with Keats and Eliot and Dylan Thomas. The house is cleaned, tidied, ordered. Bits of my life are sorted, filed, put away — until the next urge for autobiographical time travel. What do these fragments of poems, photographs, letters, certificates, school magazines, postcards from faraway places add up to? Something and nothing. They do not add up to a life. They are mere pegs and pointers, rags on a scarecrow. My life is far more, far richer then these tattered remnants, these pathetic scraps of a life. My real life is more clandestine, more subtle, more complex, more suggested and suggestible, more inventive and invented. More marginal — secret notes written in invisible ink at the paper's edge, obscure pathways of heart and mind barely travelled in these snaps and scribblings, these collected souvenirs and trinkets. More fictive. Less expressible. Oh, what a mystery it all is. Time to move on.
The bright, serrated edge of dawn
Incises quite fantastic dreams
And I awake. The weaving threads
Of sense begin to join in seams
The shapeless tapestries of sleep
Until the cloth conforms to style.
But, far back there, in the deep,
Something was lost. It stirs meanwhile
Unconsciously, as I arise
To welcome in the rational sun,
Unsecretive and undisguised.
There's no obliquity in him.
He pours a rather obvious light
On salvaged thoughts, now broken glass
Of wholeness not yet come to pass.
Was there in truth a cool domain
Where green trees leaned towards the foam
To greet a man becalmed again?
Something was lost, some perfect home,
Some vision dreamed, starlit, moonbright,
Prismatic as the dew on grass,
A stained glass window of delight.
But now I look through frosted glass
Despite the garden's clarity,
The clearcut shapes of tree and stone,
Flowers in tidy rockeries.
Set free, the dream I thought my own
Spans the horizon's wavering fire,
Sweetens the air, rivals larksong,
Dissolves beyond the arching sky.
A rainbow points to where it's gone.