Wednesday, 17 June 2015

Traumerei On The Day That Philip Larkin Is Given A Memorial Stone At Poets Corner

In this dream that dogs me I am part
Of a silent crowd walking over a floor,
Leaving a service, perhaps, in a cathedral,
All moving the same way.  After a while
Something closes in on me, right
Above, pressing me tighter.  I feel shut in
Yet I can lift my head, I see the walls
Rise, soar above me, but there is sunlight
Dancing. Now a giant whitewashed P
Appears right up among the vaults
But not too high for them to recognise.
I await the O, watch it approach and pass.
By now the people have ceased walking
And I waft freely through air, upwards despite
The weight of the stone. Under the E
I crook my arm to shield my face, for I
Must pass beneath the huge decapitated cross
Of the T, white on the wall and I cannot halt,
I simply float and mingle with music,
It is bright day. I have woken again and the word is spelt.

No comments:

Post a Comment