the seasons have a way of pulling words out of me... life and people do too - t.s
letting go in autumn
I will
no longer wait
for you to
return my love
you
and your quiet
stealing of breath by
moonlight,
your feeble stealing
of day by lying,
will not be
carried into the
new season.
autumn comes and
with its arrival demands
a new leaf. green
gives way to brownorangeyellowred
brittle leaves
aching to fall off their trees.
their time to die is now.
they understand this; but we
do not.
we stand in dying’s way
silently scream as it pulls
what it needs
from us: the ever
receding
light
of truth.
and leaves
in its place, the dull
greyness of only
existing
because we could not let go.
we held on to
yesterday’s joy. held on
in fear of never
knowing joy again,
in fear
we would never
find a new laugh to
paint our faces
the colour of summer
to shade us
the tone of
rain on rooftops.
we don’t know
what music
sounds like any more; we have
forgotten its tone and pitch.
now our walk sings
sombre songs of loss longing and
wistful waiting.
the hunger has returned, perpetual hunger never to be fulfilled.
there is no thirst here…
that too we have forgotten.
I will
no longer wait
for you to
return my love
the autumn
is here
and like those brittle leaves
I ache to
let go
this stone café knows our routine: mushroom omelette for me two cups of coffee, for you ‘chutney on the side and a glass of water, please’ as we watch the sea. we’ve been here before
it is here we talk of everything but us chew each mouthful and with it swallow words of the questions I dare not ask afraid of turning this light breakfast between us into something else I cannot name, cannot hold in my palm. just like I cannot hold you
and again, I ignore the words that beat against my chest like the waves beat against this village’s harbour wall the one we will again walk along, allowing my footsteps to tap the rhythm of wishing I dare not bring into daylight
and as we stand on that wall’s edge watching fishermen and boys wait for a bite we have the same conversation of talking much saying nothing biding our time till you drive away
: a goodbye of silences of tears cried silently behind closed doors
the lovers they wear their sadness like a scarf looped round their neck to stave off the missing
at bus stops at airport departure gates they stand, limbs locked round their love stretch a kiss to prolong goodbye steal another moment to delay the inevitable letting go of fingers
as one boards a bus boards a plane with each step hollowing out the heart of another left behind
*written in response to Doris Salcedo’s Shibboleth, part of the Unilever Series for 2007, at the Tate Modern Gallery. for more information on the exhibition, visit http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/dorissalcedo/default.shtm
