|
Along the tracks the wires are humming |
|
in bursts of code like far-off drums. |
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Fathering the message: |
|
further up the line someone's shouting |
|
down the passage of time. |
|
The corridor restrains the window, |
|
no view without the eye within. |
|
Bold upon the threshold |
|
but holding on the line |
|
we're shouting down the passage of time. |
|
Relatives speak on the phone, on the train, |
|
talking before they have thought to explain; |
|
voices pitched wildly on tracks in the night |
|
can't pick the pace up... |
|
oh let there be light! |
|
How light becomes the soul. |
|
You know yourself the centre of attention, |
|
you see yourself the locus of event. |
|
I'm sorry if it's painful quarrying the lime, |
|
stage centre, |
|
shouting down the passage of time. |
|
The corridor retains its shadows, |
|
its secrets compartmentalised. |
|
Damping down on ambience, |
|
clamp the teeth and grind, |
|
shouting down the passage of time. |
|
What's there to see or make clear? |
|
What's there to know when the voice is right here? |
|
What's there to promise or vow? |
|
What's to believe, when the time is right now? |
|
Relatives spoke on the phone, on the train, |
|
talking before they had sought to refrain; |
|
voices projected, spears in mid-flight |
|
frozen forever... |
|
oh let there be light! |
