The Wrecking Light (5 page)

On the final evening
headlights swarm down the hill like lava
making brief beds
of moving embers you can almost hear
the night extinguishing.
Darkness slides over itself, drawing down
each of its blinds, then, hours later
— even more slowly —
opening them, and the world returns
as a slur of ash and rumour, birds
calling out their names to themselves,
repeating their lines in their grey and hidden rooms.

How many more days of twilight, nightfall, dawn?
How many seasons flicked through
like frames in a ciné-film,
till the loose celluloid spins
tickering on the spool? The summers stall
in the machine and burn up;
winter is a white wall.
Years lurch,
untangling: the fast-forward trees
sprawl, in a week, from bud-burst to leaf-fall.
How much more of this life and death,
and these, their beautiful endless dress rehearsals?

Another day watching the ocean move
under the sun; pines, wisteria, lemon trees.
I darken this paradise like a sudden wind:
olive leaves, blown on their backs, silver
to razor-wire; cameras click in the wall.

Everyone is going home, and I realise
I have no idea what that means.
I listen to the shrieking of the gulls
and try to remember. How long ago
did I notice that the light was wrong,
that something inside me was broken?
Standing here, feeling nothing at all.
How long have I been leaving?
I don't know.

On the
passeggiata,
on the rocks
at the Marinella Bar again,
losing what remains of my language
to a thickening rain,
a week of rain
that's almost stopped the sea.
Trying to escape myself,
but there's always
someone
wanting to sew my shadow back.
The fisherman on his rock
under the red flags
has two fish in his bucket
swimming nowhere, side by side.
Lines of lacquered beetles
are rowing boats
turned upside-down;
the sea, mother-of-pearl
and broken shells;
the furled parasols
Madonnas in their shrouds.
I walk here
amongst the very old;
we watch the paint
flake from the hotel walls
and I take note, once again,
of the sign spelt out in English:

BATHING IN NOT SURE
FOR LACK OF RESCUE SERVIGE
.
I felt like going in,
there and then,
like a widow
toppling forward at the grave;
going in after myself.

The sudden sea is bright
and soundless: a changed channel
of dashed colour, scrolling
plankton, sea-darts, the slope
and loom of ghosts, something
slow and grey
sashaying through a school
of cobalt blue,
thin chains of silver fish
that link and spill and flicker away.
The elements imitate each other:
water-light playing on these stones
becomes a shaking flame; sunlight
stitches the rock-weed's rust and green,
swaying, sea-wavering; one red
twist scatters a shoal like a dust of static
—a million tiny shocks of white
dissolving in the lower depths.
The only sound
is the sea's mouth and the ticking
of the many mouths
that feed within it, sipping the light.

Dreaming high over the sea-forest
—the sea-bed green as a forest floor —
through the columns of gold
and streams of water-weed,
above a world in thrall,
charting by light
as a plane might glide,
slowly, silently
over woods in storm.

That moment, when the sun ignites the valley and picks out
every bud that's greened that afternoon; when birds
spill from the trees like shaken sheets; that sudden loosening
into beauty; the want in her eyes, her eyes' fleet blue;
the medals of light on water; the way the water intrigued
about her feet, the ocean walking her out into its depth,
sea lighting the length of her from the narrow waist
to the weight of the breasts; the way she lifted her eyes to me
and handed me back, simplified; that moment
at the end, knowing the one I had abandoned was myself,
edging with the sun around the bay's scoop of rocks,
rolling the last gold round the glass; that shelving love
as the sun was lost to us and the sky bruised, and the
stones grew cold as the shells on the beach at Naxos.

You'd know her house by the drawn blinds —
by the cormorants pitched on the boundary wall,
the black crosses of their wings hung out to dry.
You'd tell it by the quicken and the pine that hid it
from the sea and from the brief light of the sun,
and by Aonghas the collie, lying at the door
where he died: a rack of bones like a sprung trap.

A fork of barnacle geese came over, with that slow
squeak of rusty saws. The bitter sea's complaining pull
and roll; a whicker of pigeons, lifting in the wood.

She'd had four sons, I knew that well enough,
and each one wrong. All born blind, they say,
slack-jawed and simple, web-footed,
rickety as sticks. Beautiful faces, I'm told,
though blank as air.
Someone saw them once, outside, hirpling
down to the shore, chittering like rats,
and said they were fine swimmers,
but I would have guessed at that.

Her husband left her: said
they couldn't be his, they were more
fish than human,
said they were beglamoured,
and searched their skin for the showing marks.

For years she tended each difficult flame:
their tight, flickering bodies.
Each night she closed
the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire.

Until he came again,
that last time,
thick with drink, saying
he'd had enough of this,
all this witchery,
and made them stand
in a row by their beds,
twitching. Their hands
flapped; herring-eyes
rolled in their heads.
He went along the line
relaxing them
one after another
with a small knife.

It's said she goes out every night to lay
blankets on the graves to keep them warm.
It would put the heart across you, all that grief.

There was an otter worrying in the leaves, a heron
loping slow over the water when I came
at scraich of day, back to her door.

She'd hung four stones in a necklace, wore
four rings on the hand that led me past the room
with four small candles burning
which she called 'the room of rain'.
Milky smoke poured up from the grate
like a waterfall in reverse
and she said my name
and it was the only thing
and the last thing that she said.

She gave me a skylark's egg in a bed of frost;
gave me twists of my four sons' hair; gave me
her husband's head in a wooden box.
Then she gave me the sealskin, and I put it on.

It is so cold tonight; too cold for snow,
and yet it snows. Through the drawn curtain
shines the snowlight I remember as a boy,
sitting up at the window watching it fall.
But you're not here, now, to lead me back
to bed. None of you are. Look at the snow,
I said, to whoever might be near, I'm cold,
would you hold me. Hold me. Let me go.

Silvered Water:
placing a silver coin in a bowl of water or throwing it into a well is a traditional Scottish blessing, or preparation for a wish.

 

Signs on a White Field

sun-cups:
hollows in ice caused by surface melting during intense sunshine.

snow penitents:
pinnacles or spikes of compacted snow or ice caused by partial ablation of an ice field exposed to the sun.

 

By Clachan Bridge

stone-baby:
the medical term is
lithopedion;
this occurs when a foetus dies during an ectopic pregnancy, is too large to be reabsorbed by the body, and calcifies.

 

The Plague Year

observatory
: the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles was the scene of the knife fight in
Rebel Without a Cause
(1955).
Pere Marquette:
pronounced 'peer'.

 

A Gift

dwayberries:
deadly nightshade - a poison, as are all the plants mentioned.

 

Strindberg in Berlin

Strindberg took a flat in Berlin in the autumn of 1892 and became a regular at
Zum schwarzen Ferkel,
where he first encountered Munch, Hamsun and the Polish writer and musician Stanislaw Przybyszewski. During his brief stay in the city he met, and became engaged to, Frida Uhl, while conducting an affair with a young Norwegian, Dagny Juel. Strindberg and Munch were rivals for Juel's attentions, but she married Przybyszewski. It was around this time that Strindberg's lifelong interest in alchemy began.
mareld:
(Swedish) sea-fire, also known in English as 'seasparkle': the phenomenon of bioluminescence, where high concentrations of plankton
(Noctiluca scintillans)
containing an enzyme called luciferas give off light when disturbed.

 

Tinsel

tinsel:
the losing of something; the sustaining of harm, damage or detriment; loss.

 

Leaving St Kilda

This describes an anti-clockwise circumnavigation of the main island, Hirta, then Soay, followed by a clockwise turn around Boreray.

 

Kalighat

the Kali Temple, Kolkata.

 

Pentheus and Dionysus

from
Metamorphoses,
Book III.

 

The Daughters of Minyas

from
Metamorphoses,
Book IV.

 

Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market

'Oda a un Gran Atún en el Mercado' from
Odas Elementales.

 

Albatross in Co. Antrim

'L'Albatros' from
Les fleurs du mal.

 

The Great Midwinter Sacrifice, Uppsala

suggested by Adam of Bremen's
Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum (History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen,
translated by Francis J. Tschan, New York, 1959).

 

The Hammam

Cağaloğ;lu Hamami, Istanbul.

 

Unspoken Water:
running water taken from under a bridge (over which the living pass and the dead are carried) and collected in a vessel that should not be allowed to touch the ground. It must be brought in the dawn or twilight to the house of the sick or bewitched person, and carried in complete silence. A wooden ladle containing a piece of silver is dipped in and the victim given three sips of the 'silvered' water. The remainder is then sprinkled over and around the body, or poured into a corner stone of the building or behind the fire-flag, naming the afflicted person. If the stone splits the illness or curse is fatal. In Scotland this is traditionally regarded as a powerful charm against the Evil Eye and for healing the sick.

 

The Wood of Lost Things

docken suit:
a suit made of dock leaves.

 

Calling Home

'Hemat' from
Sanningsbarriären;
this free version was included in
The Deleted World
(Enitharmon Press, 2006).

 

Ictus

ictus:
metrical stress; the beat of the pulse; a stroke, seizure.
cack-handed:
clumsy/left-handed.

 

The Unwritten Letter

'Su una lettera non scritta' from
La Bufera e Altro.

 

During Dinner

Hawthorn flowers contain trimethylamine, one of the first chemicals formed when body tissue starts to decay, with an odour also said to be reminiscent of the sexual secretions of aroused women.

 

Arsenio

'Arsenio' from
Ossi di Seppia.

 

Widow's Walk

the widow's walk:
a high coastal walk or platform where fishermen's wives waited for sight of the returning boats.

 

At Roane Head

quicken:
the rowan.

Archipelago, The Atlantic, Birtan í Húminu, Brick, Granta, Guardian, Little Star, London Review of Books, Manhattan Review, New Writing 15, New York Review of Books, Poetry, Poetry Ireland Review, Poetry London, Poetry Review, Spectator, Times Literary Supplement.

 

'Ictus' was commissioned by Carol Ann Duffy for
Answering Back
(Picador); 'Dress Rehearsals' was published in
Raising the Iron
(Cargo Press) edited by David Harsent.

 

The latter stages of the writing of this book were supported by a welcome grant from the National Lottery through Arts Council England. I am also hugely grateful for the time spent at the Liguria Study Center at Bogliasco and, once again, at the Santa Maddalena Foundation in Donnini.