Once we were content to
sit in the dark
We would pray for its
return (or at least try)
Ages passed. Who was the
first bright spark
To snare the sun. To pull
it down from the sky?
When we had tamed it,
placed it in a wire
We were Prometheus and
Hyperion
Our night times were
pin-pricked by fires
Our cities blazed like
millions of suns
If we were not afraid, if
we were autonomous
When it came back, we would
not feel gratitude
But we do. A memory of
darkness lives in us
Light compels us; it
masters our moods
And so – we drive up into
the hills
Sun on snow. Shadow. Sun
on daffodils
Easter Sunday 31 March 2013. Went to the Malvern Hills to remember my parents. There were 29 of us, I think - brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, cousins, second cousins, girl friends, boy friends .... We assembled in the cafe, The Kettle Sings, where they ‘used to do their courting’, as the saying goes. The sun was shining. The poem grew from the image in the last line.
Easter Sunday 31 March 2013. Went to the Malvern Hills to remember my parents. There were 29 of us, I think - brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, cousins, second cousins, girl friends, boy friends .... We assembled in the cafe, The Kettle Sings, where they ‘used to do their courting’, as the saying goes. The sun was shining. The poem grew from the image in the last line.
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