The sentiment expressed in the following poem has become one of the many underlying themes featured in my in-progress novel, 'The Melancholy Haunting Of Nicholas Parkes'. The poem featured on a CD published by
Klanggalerie last year with an ambient soundtrack by
Attrition. The poem is something of an homage to
Walter de la Mare. I gave a reading of it at Waterstones in Nottingham last autumn.
IN
EVERY PARTING, THE SHADOW OF DEATH
“In
every parting, the shadow of death….”
murmured
the old man with filmy blue eyes
as
I sat picking out stars
in
the swooning purple skies
Glancing
back from my lonely glass window
I
shot him a polite, quizzical glance
Inviting
further comment
-
though he was plainly entranced -
for
sat on his lap
all
broguey and tweed
was
an inanimate stuffed cat
of
indeterminate breed
which
he stroked and he petted
with
more than gentle need.
His
eyes glittered bright with a dream-haunted tear
so
I offered myself up to listen regardless of fear
to
that which he most wanted me to hear.
It
suddenly struck me - ridiculously perverse! -
that
he spoke of his cat
-
but quite the reverse! -
for
I suddenly realised that it was ‘merely’ a soft toy
all
matted and lumpy from when he was a boy!
[How
many times had that been carelessly abused?
I
reflected ignorantly, stupidly amused.]
I
struggled respectfully to stifle a chortle and glanced instead
downwards
at
boots which were once ‘all the rage’
but
clearly had since been cruelly beaten by age.
The
moon glittered coldly from way up on high
swooning
through stars in the velvety sky
whilst
the cradling rock of the carriage on the track
sent
electric-shock tingles thrilling across my back.
Then
I recalled a tumble dryer from when I was a child
for
there beneath a worktop I often did hide
nuzzling
down deep into laundry-fresh sheets
to
escape from the belt with which I was often beat
as
the comforting shiver of the spinning electric machine
lulled
me into a contented sleep happy dream.
“In
every parting, the shadow of death,”
repeated
my new friend, remembering sad times,
when
it suddenly struck me that the toy was not his
but
rather the plaything of someone painfully missed!
As
the train trundled into Crewe and my friend rose to depart
In
another seven words he pierced straight through my heart;
for
as our eyes met we became joined at the head
and
he spoke the words “Really, what more needs ever be said?”
Copyright Christopher Richard Barker 2016.
