The deal table where he wrote, so small and plain,
the single bed a dream of discipline.
And a flagged kitchen downstairs, its mote-slants
of thick light: the unperturbed, reliable
ghost-life he carried, with no need to invent.
And high trees around the house, breathed upon
day and night by winds as slow as a cart
coming late from market or the stir
a fiddle could make in his reluctant heart.
That day, we were like one
of his troubled pairs, speechless
until he spoke for them,
haunters of silence at noon
in a deep lane that was sexual
with ferns and butterflies,
scared at our hurt,
throat-sick, heat-struck, driven
into the damp-floored wood
where we made an episode
of ourselves, unforgettable,
and broke out again like cattle
through bushes, wet and raised,
only yards from the house.
Everywhere being nowhere,
who can prove
one place more than another?
So we go back emptied,
to nourish and resist
the words of coming to rest:
birthplace, roofbeam, whitewash,
like unstacked iron weights
afloat among galaxies.
Still, was it thirty years ago
I read until first light
for the first time, to finish
The Return of the Native?
The corncrake in the aftergrass
verified himself, and I heard
roosters and dogs, the very same
as if he had written them.
Send Letters To:
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.