My memories do not look like the sun;
Flames burn brighter than my looking back;
If snow be white, then my thoughts are none;
If I have life, I know not what I lack.
I have seen a world of my own, shut it tight;
Where no man might venture to stories told;
I have watched the ticking of time in delight;
Though never did I feel I might grow old.
I love to think things past, yet well I know
That I carry the baggage in my hand;
I grant I never thought the past would grow;
My memories, when they walk, make me stand:
And yet, by recall, I think my life as rare
As any given up and never shared.
Monday 21 February 2011
Saturday 19 February 2011
Hurricane
Black. The only colour I can see as the door closes and the world is shut out of our haven underground. I feel stifled already, terrified as the sounds begin to collect themselves, building momentum, gathering strength.
The scratching of a match and the sudden flame horrifies my senses; I was becoming accustomed to my muffled surroundings: deadened sight and hearing only through the thickness of the earth. The flame brings me back to the reality of the situation - we are waiting for the hurricane to hit.
In the flickering light I can see the marks of the recycled aluminium that forces us close together, strangers and love ones, sealed tight into this living coffin. The sounds of heavy breathing recreate the hurricane in my ears and I am reminded of last time we were struck; some of us weren't lucky enough to make it down here that fateful night.
The air in the shelter shivers with anticipation as the orchestra on the ground above reaches towards its crescendo. No one moves down here when up there it must be chaos; it is a scene we can only imagine - until it is all over. It's hard to catch precise sounds in the confusion of vibrations, but I am sure I can hear a woman's scream fading out into the distance, perhaps the snap of her neck as the wind whips her around a tree trunk.
I can no longer remember the world as it once was: everything in its place. In my imagination even the colour has drained from the world outside. When we ascend the steps and look out at the devastation we will find that the sun has been swept away with the rest of our belongings, never to be seen again and we will be forced forever more to live in a land of clouds and misery. No flowers will light up the roadsides and no balloons will reflect in the blue of a child's eyes. This time is not the same as the last.
I will awake and the ground will be at peace once more, but for now my dreams are haunted by the proximity of relative safety and the nearness of utter destruction. I cannot reconcile my mind to the here and now. A child begins to tear at its hair in desperation and I know how it feels. Outside the wind is tearing foundations from the earth and it is just as painful as ripping out hair.
My breathing begins to echo the sound of the tribal drums pounding outside - a car, a street sign, no discerning musicians in this hurrcane. My mind begins to swirl and race as I drift into unconsciousness. The only way to survive is to give yourself up to the hurricane's demands: listen, listen to my power. Listen, come dance with me.
The scratching of a match and the sudden flame horrifies my senses; I was becoming accustomed to my muffled surroundings: deadened sight and hearing only through the thickness of the earth. The flame brings me back to the reality of the situation - we are waiting for the hurricane to hit.
In the flickering light I can see the marks of the recycled aluminium that forces us close together, strangers and love ones, sealed tight into this living coffin. The sounds of heavy breathing recreate the hurricane in my ears and I am reminded of last time we were struck; some of us weren't lucky enough to make it down here that fateful night.
The air in the shelter shivers with anticipation as the orchestra on the ground above reaches towards its crescendo. No one moves down here when up there it must be chaos; it is a scene we can only imagine - until it is all over. It's hard to catch precise sounds in the confusion of vibrations, but I am sure I can hear a woman's scream fading out into the distance, perhaps the snap of her neck as the wind whips her around a tree trunk.
I can no longer remember the world as it once was: everything in its place. In my imagination even the colour has drained from the world outside. When we ascend the steps and look out at the devastation we will find that the sun has been swept away with the rest of our belongings, never to be seen again and we will be forced forever more to live in a land of clouds and misery. No flowers will light up the roadsides and no balloons will reflect in the blue of a child's eyes. This time is not the same as the last.
I will awake and the ground will be at peace once more, but for now my dreams are haunted by the proximity of relative safety and the nearness of utter destruction. I cannot reconcile my mind to the here and now. A child begins to tear at its hair in desperation and I know how it feels. Outside the wind is tearing foundations from the earth and it is just as painful as ripping out hair.
My breathing begins to echo the sound of the tribal drums pounding outside - a car, a street sign, no discerning musicians in this hurrcane. My mind begins to swirl and race as I drift into unconsciousness. The only way to survive is to give yourself up to the hurricane's demands: listen, listen to my power. Listen, come dance with me.
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