When I was a child, I was sent away for a year for my health. Everything there was the exact opposite to my home. No bright colours as at home and, of course, with so many children to care for, instead of love, there was an impartial interest and care. There are many times we would not go back to and this was one of them.
LET IT BE
Last night, The apple tree turned white, Its wide skirts trembling As if some fabulous ballerina Was dancing over the grass.
For a moment, I was taken back To my childhood. Looking at an apple tree Through a window, Where my finger nail Scraped long strands of frost.
Then I was a long way from home. A long way from love and colour, Close to dark uniforms, To squares of aprons Crackling in snowy starchiness. White caps like fearful torches Breaking the dusky violet night, Making me weep for home.
Now making me glad that none of us Can inhabit the past.
We all have our own Gethsemane When times are against us, When, faultless and perfect, Darkness no longer has an airy lightness But falls upon us With the full weight of sorrow.
From Gethsemane there comes always That long walk to the crucifixion of hope, That slow procession into loneliness, That sombre step into a darkness, where love Becomes nothing but an old and lovely dream.
The days go round so fast, Even as we watch the clock, These hours chasing hours Make us feel As if we are pinned To the centre of time. The ordered, carefree minutes, Race away like stars Falling into memory. Unstoppable, Wholly uncontrollable, So fast, so giddy, Sparks fly out of our eyes, Fire springs from our fingers And from our feet, Tiny flames of life lick the startled air.