On being silent

 

I read to people in large rooms

but I can’t hear myself

I feel constrained

my words seem distant

somehow empty

echoing in an empty room

I feel I’m of another time

a sense of regret

I accepted silence for too long

and now feel that I should return

to a world of silence again.

A shepherd has read

a poem I wrote about him

and now looks at me with a new eye

there is a warmth

that I have honoured him

I am someone who has troubled

to write about him

and given importance to his life.

He said quietly that he took time

to read my words

and smiled.

 

For William.

Matahara

This morning I stopped

to listen to a robin singing

in the tall birch tree

that overhangs our garden.

 

It is mid-August in Wales

but the robin’s singing

was the wistful and shrill

notes of an October song.

 

And it’s on cold clear

mornings like this

that I am reminded

of a small town

called Matahara

in the Rift valley

A lorry stop

on the badly cambered

rutted out road

from Addis to Djhibuti.

 

And of staying overnight

in the old school

over-shadowed by the cauldera

of Mount Fantalle

 

And woken by the sounds

of camels and the shouts

and whistles of men

returning safely again

from the long search

for nourishing pasture

emerging through

the rising dust

that shrouded and gauzed

the clear light of morning.

 

The sight of a man

running and carrying

a new born camel

on his shoulders.

 

And the sounds

of the joy of children

welcoming the men

their fathers, uncles

and brothers safely

back to their homes

 

All this will stay with me

for the time allowed

as I hear that the rains

have failed again.

 

RAC

 

Published in “Uncertain Times” Octavo Press 2016.