Hell’s Bells, the storm that raged here in Tramore last night reduced me to a state of quivering, blithering terror, especially when there was a loud thump on the roof that would have been grand if it had been in the early hours of Christmas morning!
As I lay with my hands jammed against my ears, poetry came to my rescue and especially two poems that I read in the last week or so in what I call my ‘poetry bible.’
Oh yes, I came as close to praying as I someone like me can:
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now. Grade I piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.
Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer –
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.
Carol Ann Duffy
and in the deep dark trough of those dark early hours, I drew strength from remembering this one:
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.
Carol and Fleur, thank you, thank you, thank you …..