MEMINI

In a spring glade, eyes half-closed, music-making

– that’s where I located you,

in the ancient beech woods. I stood before you, shaking.

You gazed at me. No, not ‘at’; you gazed ‘through’.

Why have you come so far?

What more do you think you need to know?

Tongue-tied, I stood. Come so far, now so near.

You told me then,

as you often did, only to dare

to ask myself questions for my own star

to lead me through fire, flood.

But home again, if this is home, my words turn sour,

I’m still infected in my head and seething blood.

Not because you did not

– so few men of your class or time ever stood

naked – but because you never once uttered

the words I longed to hear,

never understood what I believe: that what

is neither written by hand nor heard by ear

is never wholly so.

Father, father. Back again, back, always, everywhere.

You close your eyes, gentle and smiling, sky-blue,

and incline to your Welsh harp.

Remember who you are. Memini. Who are you?