A Small Light Back Home
I sometimes go back there, driving down
the streets of my youth, the small house
where I was married & the old red-brick school.
Look carefully & you can see your soul
hanging like a lamppost, memories you put
away in an oak drawer take flight
returning to the whole. It is, of course,
incumbent on any soul to keep washing up
on the shoreline of the psyche — this the
grandness of the journey into form.
There is an opera in each one of us, a body filled
with layers of dark mythology, perhaps
erased like a roof-line by night.
Sow your seed long enough & most
gardens can grow into memory & memory
into myth. It’s how each one becomes an
archetype, even a god. But beyond
the stories we make up for meaning
lies a great beyond pitching unfathomable darkness
& finally, a most terrible, wondrous light.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
