A Small Stone for Alan Brunton’s Cairn
It is the last
Saturday in June, well
into the southern winter, the wind coming up
from unseen mountains to bring the
big chill up to the door of the backroom
where I sit at the computer, the cat
on the stool beside me & the hissing heater
keeping us company. I am surrounded
by books, many of which I have read
over & over, as I replay favourite tracks
from tapes & CDs — Youssou N’Dour
& Neneh Cherry singing 7 Seconds,
Miles Davis’ Time after Time. I
am
surrounded by instruments of memory.
I am surrounded by
words, many of which
I use over & over, time after time. There
are also those of which I was enamoured
but never got to use, save all together,
in the one poem. & there are some
that I have kept hidden, in pristine state,
mainly adjectives, because I never
found the proper noun to give them to.
I am isolated by instruments of memory.
Even when the computer is turned off
Michele’s email is retained as an image burnt
on the eyes as the light departs. “He’s
gone.”
& the sound system is the one on which
I listened to the Big Smoke tape & heard
Alan’s voice for the first time, was caught by it
& drew from out of the secret stash to give
to him
mellifluous
Isolate, desolate,
surrounded by instruments
of memory, I will read Michele’s email
over & over even if I never see it again; &
though I retain the sound & the sensation
of the tape, I know that when the wind
dies down I will play it once more, to
listen to that voice again, as sweet as honey.
Mark Young
Sydney
|
