RIGMAROLE : NIGHT-DRIVING IN CORREZE
for Lucy
Night air
a little
ahead
of
night itself –
look –
light
falling
behind us.
In what
are we
and by
what
charm
bound? O
daughter
bright as day
and curious –
in clear air
memory lightly
calling to us –
but hard
- immortal hand –
wind
we drink
like water
striking
our hearts.
Our hands
to lizard eyes –
warm in
those parts –
wall
nooks of
creeper old
blackbird
castles black
bright
quick
darting
run – a hunting
animal
call in
those woods –
"hunger
in all weather."
Rock walls
washed
with brown
ores –
blood
residue like
poor wine:
sharp on
the tongue –
taste – dark
wind of
night coming.
Rivers, coldcut
deep in
their gorges –
and we
watching them –
as what
ancient people
watching
and sensing
this place.
Who painted
deer horses
on the rock's
curve – alive –
with what
wondrous grace.
"Long ago" – stories
told and a
tune piped
by firelight –
a hillsong –
headlights
catching on
woods,
dark sticks.
At each bend
your head
falls
a little; curve
of your neck
(car mirror)
a pattern
reflected I'm caught
soft on it.
Bats and
little owl
seen in trees –
small animal
shapes sounds –
driving
our light
defines us
- forests of the
night -
cornering
tired
towards sleep.
Hard breathing
in night air
our thoughts
surround us.
Never still
and with us.
That you
drink it in
as new –
you laugh,
are ardent
in what you do.
I love you
for that, too.
Richard Caddel
Durham, 1990
for Lucy
Night air
a little
ahead
of
night itself –
look –
light
falling
behind us.
In what
are we
and by
what
charm
bound? O
daughter
bright as day
and curious –
in clear air
memory lightly
calling to us –
but hard
- immortal hand –
wind
we drink
like water
striking
our hearts.
Our hands
to lizard eyes –
warm in
those parts –
wall
nooks of
creeper old
blackbird
castles black
bright
quick
darting
run – a hunting
animal
call in
those woods –
"hunger
in all weather."
Rock walls
washed
with brown
ores –
blood
residue like
poor wine:
sharp on
the tongue –
taste – dark
wind of
night coming.
Rivers, coldcut
deep in
their gorges –
and we
watching them –
as what
ancient people
watching
and sensing
this place.
Who painted
deer horses
on the rock's
curve – alive –
with what
wondrous grace.
"Long ago" – stories
told and a
tune piped
by firelight –
a hillsong –
headlights
catching on
woods,
dark sticks.
At each bend
your head
falls
a little; curve
of your neck
(car mirror)
a pattern
reflected I'm caught
soft on it.
Bats and
little owl
seen in trees –
small animal
shapes sounds –
driving
our light
defines us
- forests of the
night -
cornering
tired
towards sleep.
Hard breathing
in night air
our thoughts
surround us.
Never still
and with us.
That you
drink it in
as new –
you laugh,
are ardent
in what you do.
I love you
for that, too.
Richard Caddel
Durham, 1990