The Spectre of England

The Spectre of England (apres Walcott)

Down the Abrahamic stones of the distant past,
by the mulberry trees that shade the graves that hardly ask for it,
to the sound of thunder that comes from across the border,
he waits, for the sepoy to say something, to divulge
and looks lost into the distance, thinking, building an empire here
destroying one there, vertical like one of the seven pillars
of that proverbial wisdom
(ah, that room above the arch, the arch, the arch, the quad)
fearing he may let pass a word that could
heal.
He passes zebra crossings, watches the traffic lights
until he has come to a table where he can order
strong coffee, mineral water
with a view of a train station long abandoned
in this town of past wrongs beyond repair.
I almost missed him, but there he is
his hand with the up and down motion
of sipping coffe, and in the background
the noise of a hesitant rush hour
his dark blue suit and inner jumper
sensing rain with the coming gale, he stands up to go
this young looking old old man.
II
Walking the washed out walk ways, holding something precious in his breast pocket,
unreachable in his silence
he does not care about the carnage,
his travel companions are talking about. This figure
not quite a man, but this walking stick, this tall straight-line
this tower
from his city of sleeping spires.
The mist is his master, within which
he grew to like, to dislike, to keep silent
- the mist that nurtured him to be vague, in all appearance
and yet be true to his colours.
He enters a church that is blackened with the soot of candles,
and wonders how many said their prayers there.
III
The locals are dark and merry, the library is
in disrepair, his need to read is something palpable, and in the heat
he rushes to the market to find a second-hand shop
that soothes his nerves.
He grabs Anna Karenina in Russian and walks to a cafe
The youths are smiling under their brilliantined hair, the girls are dressed to the nines
The waiters are listless as they offer delicacies, the policemen stroll about
He sits there and shuts out everything,
indifferent to a world that tries to impress.
His postcards home are one-liners
as they have taught him not to care,
not to take to heart much what one sees
On his way to his rooms
he watches the traffic revolving around the opera house
and thinks he hears a familiar note
reaching him from within the closed shutters
His is an innate music of the mind that needs no strings.
Entering his room he sees the poster he bought in London sometime ago
Thinking it perfect for his kind of digs
His paper kinsmen stare at him from across the room
All is well with the world.
Think of the worlds torn apart, burnt, destroyed
Think of the splatters of blood, ash caused
By all this well-ness that fills your room
With the power he no longer has he looks at me askance
“Really N! I am not the beast you make me out to be”
IV
His forehead creased and be-freckled
He envisions the gorge, the river bed
The poplars bending over it, the little caravan
swifts flying overhead in concert.
The old Greek temple stands, full of tourist
And forever, that girl with the flower-tiara
It is as it should be, girls, hair and flowers
All this he sees in his mind’s eye
And now it comes to him as an aftermath, an afterthought
of the pillage, of the spoils of his silent war.
He picks and chooses
The figures that decorate his memory
And himself, vertical, on a straight path, not wavering
one wee bit.
The forehead creases- it is sometimes to much of a strain
To record images without a word to tag
To turn into some kind of story.
A vast sea of unseen sights stretch before him
As he plans his next foray into the wild
Silently, swiftly, he builds another frame, another altar
To his unfathomable gods.