Little Gidding
Suspended in time, between pole and
tropic
O voyagers,
O seamen,
My words echo. Quick, said the bird, find them, find them. Men and bits
of paper, whirled by the cold wind. Trying to learn to use words, and every
attempt is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure because one has
only learnt to get the better of words for thethings one no longer has to say.
Words move, music moves. The stillness of the violin, while the note lasts.
Music heard so deeply that it is not heard at all, but you are the music while
the music lasts.
So I find words I never thought to speak, in streets I never thought I
should revisit when I left my body on a distant shore. Turning shadow into
transient beauty. Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
every poem an epitaph. Biography from the wrinkles of the palm. Time present
and time past. What might have been is an abstraction.
Home is where one start from. As we grow older the world becomes
stranger. The tolling bell measures time older than time counted by anxious
worried women lying awake. The silent withering of autumn flowers dropping
their petals and remaining motionless. In a drifting boat with a slow leakage.
There is no end, but addition. The ash the burnt roses leave. At the end of the
journey, you came at night like a broken king.
Not fare well, but fare forward,
voyagers.
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