Visiting Neil

 

Hello old friend. I’m sorry that it’s been a while.

I can’t pretend that this cold place is easy on the mind.

But nonetheless you’re always there, somewhere,

underneath and in the darkness; thinking through philosophies,

searching out those sparks of why and wherefore

to eternity.

 

Who me? I’ve done OK, The usual, you know - job, house, car

 - relationships; the ordinary stuff of life.

Though I always held a candle for you.

Your memory sometimes hides

- but never fades. You’re set in stone. And now and then

I call your name, and wonder if you hear. and know

that in my memory,

you’ll never really be alone.

 

What’s in the bag? Oh just some things I brought for you

I thought you might have missed – comforts, more for me than you

perhaps,

“Benedictus benedicat”:

 

 a firmament of winter stars

a skylark’s hymn to spring-mown hay

a summer blush of giggling girls

a patch of bluebells fallen from the cloudless air of May

an autumn sunset, stained with ripened fruit

warm rain, lightning slashing at a charcoal sky,

a seastorm’s anger, three coins - a wish from Rome

plainsong heard across an Oxford lawn

a playground full of laughter,

a valley’s eiderdown of mist at dawn

a scented silver trail of woodsmoke,  leading home.

 

Neruda’s words – (pour them gently in your ears)

Elgar’s melodies for English hills

a precious vial of unguent tears - scalded with rage

 - and frozen by a mother’s loss

a moondust footprint from a giant’s leap

a nation’s roaring heart one afternoon in sixty-six

a pillow, dewed and warm with woman scent

a skyline waltz of starling wings

the molten kisses of love’s first fire -

as hot, and fierce, as hornet stings.

 

 café chatter, jokes and bottles cracked with friends,

a generation’s theme tunes,

leaked from a letter box in Abbey Road,

church bells and confetti

strewn across a village green

two golden circles – interlocked

with nothing in between,

a child’s warm hand,

to flutter like a new-fledged bird in yours

strawberries, ice cream

melting in a July afternoon,

the Sunday scent of bacon

that tiptoes up a stair

a barefoot walk

in meadows wet with dew

a patient fathom

that waits beneath the dapple

of the parish yew

and love,

love enough to outlast every dying sun

and fading moon

wrapped in the words

of an agnostic’s faltering prayer.

 

 

I can’t take you home – that gift was never mine to give;

just your story, and the memory of you

to remind a world you too once laughed,

once loved,

once lived.

So goodbye old friend,

I’ll light that candle for you

for hope,

 and remembrance

of a long-lost cause

we’ll meet again

one day

I’ll cross my darkness

where you wait

for me

in yours.

 

Author's note:

In general I believe that the explanation of a poem can detract from its sentiments and message, although I have often wished for one. In this case however, perhaps that rule is worth bending. Not because it adds anything to the poem, but that the story, in and of itself is one that should be told. In order not to further extend the length of this post those who are interested will find it here:

http://www.writeoutloud.net/poets/anthonyemmerson