Stride Magazine - www.stridemagazine.co.uk
IMAGINING
THE GOLDEN LARKS COULD COME We forget with the steps we walk that what has passed has still to be told, still to be heard, to be found in a voice like a knife thrust in to the hilt and twisted. We finish with time before it is drowned in thought, just when it is pretending to be already dead. Burning, the seconds hope for weakness, uselessly imagining the golden larks could come to warn of suicide and shame, to see the possibility of horror, to wake all lost innocence as is found. Yet, any of us could have had the heart to call out before it was gone to where we can never know * There were fantasies that gave our explanations an inconceivable, but visible truth everybody knew from angle to corner confused all the more for being forgiven the wit thereafter answered and there were many paths we could have revealed had we known that, without them, innocence was gone. There were mirages to make the moment last until dawn and virgin time to be known as a square to be rescued from, with our fake resistance and reticence barely protecting us from the embarassment of repeated blame and delirium, so young were we to bear the shock of first love declared - first love the only love contrary enough to be never foretold. * What had to be was every naked cause, every possible misfortune like a distant declaration of participation. What there was went without seeing the whole as safe from a future of hesitation as if ruined by always being frightened to die. What there is is just as before except it is only now, with almost a lifetime been and gone, that I find fate to be something to be believed. * The golden larks never come and all of us smell the heaviness of pain in the drowsiness of morning. So, as family, we confess and repent, phrase by literal phrase, each unopened memory we hide, speaking of change, convinced time must, again, be dismissed as a trick of mother sun and sister soul. That so many fluttering birds should have vanished is never forgotten the thought never abandoned. We can only fake a certain feverish sweat to go on living when the truth, so often, has lacked the glow of proof, of a fleeting peace our pretending so real as to be taken without the slightest uncertainty. * We can only roll the minutes, later and later, into the embers of a blood moon: without sleep; without ever having been done with the years of empty mourning; anxious to find the shadow of roots we left for dead in a conceited age of howling indignation; an age of wounds and cloud. * But to have thought the golden larks would come is as absurd as to ask a face in shadow to shape the years before us: as madly unstitched in a steaming delirium, in the moment exposed, as to believe in the lucidity of love over all else told. To think at all is to have stumbled upon a sleeping blessing, the ephemeral encounter with a mind unbarred: and with senses open to the silence of years dripping with resolve, to think at all is to want to be told. * But, if you steer me now into the backwoods of routine and duty, then neither of us would be beginning to sacrifice intentions, neither of us would be going to leave, to be together no more, to be gone, nothing to one another: we would still be here, holding off, resisting the worst of the knives-in-the-back we receive. And peoples names are called, over and over, everyone waiting their time in pretexts sunk like cargo in a harbour, there, but not, not even now as under its salt-blanket of sea it twins peace with a certain suspicion: we have slowly learned to believe nobody and answer only to our own embarassment at living. * We have slowly learned that stone on steel would never have been so well heard by so few had it not been for being forgotten by so many; and, since, nothing we have remembered has been found hung on the door in the night, as if proof in ink of the need for a line to be there. The beating remorse for an imagined name we had thought stopped, eyes full of tears, still tears pure gold from our confusion, written in sweat from the surrender of our defence and said in a trembling word without anybody answering the questions we had borrowed from time. But, until the end, when we reach the horizon and can pause to receive the fruit of a lifetime of motives, fruit we had never thought to be eating until then, we are left loaded, recalling only that what has passed has still to be told, still to be heard, to be found in a voice in the rain. * We finish with time before it is drowned in thought, just when it is pretending to be already dead; for, if nothing else, we know the golden larks will not come. * © John Mingay 2002 |