THAT BEST OF YEARS
On
days like this I just want to suck on a boiled sweet
And
be a boy called Roger, whose glum existence
Is
about to be changed on a gloomy, grey day
At
his Uncle’s in the Cotswolds, when a sign
From
another world, possibly Saxon, or Jute,
Breaks
into the Anglican community at Christmas,
And
the bronze-age sword in the drawing room
Begins
to glow umber at night, as owls
Hunt
voles, and a light frost lands at midnight
On
the ruined chestnut trees down the lane.
It
is 1970, and there are a few new anthologies
Discussing
a young poet called Heaney,
But
otherwise, the main idea is that science
Is
coming, and the future is geodesic; also,
Population
is a time bomb as the covers show,
With
the globe shaped like a bomb, with a fuse,
As
if Africa was an anarchist in a Conrad novel.
And
as Roger’s Uncle has a rather large library,
Which
you access via a panel hidden in the pantry,
You
have read all the books about jetpacks,
The
police action in Indochina, and Aleister Crowley.
It
is this last tome, then the others, which you begin
To
scour, that lead you to believe he is a necromancer,
Which
explains the sword, plus a growing thrum
At
night, coming from Farmer Brown’s disused barn.
Then,
the squat maid, Mrs Claxton, goes missing,
Inexplicably,
and Detective Challenger appears
On
the scene with his obnoxious pipe and wellies,
To
investigate. It snows constantly, as in Lapland,
And
when it stops, it rains like a sou’wester.
The
tin mines are closed, and the hills hollowed out.
Arthur’s
true seat beckons, and queer signals appear.
A
rabbit is found half-skinned, but alive.
Soon
it will be the solstice, and who knows what
Could
happen then? That is the sort of year
I’d
like to have, to feel happening, being sixteen,
Again,
in mucky weather, with religious danger
In
the air, but an ultimate courage, burning within
My
amulet, connecting my spirit to the silver lexicon,
As
I was soon to learn that evening at the vicarage.
DECEMBER
13, 2020
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