If you return home broken, and write a poem through your fear and grief and homesickness, and it pours from you without thought – a torrent of words like a rush of tears – and it speaks of prophesy, and then in the future the poem comes true, and the prophesy materialises as foretold, does it mean Time has waited for the players to step into the Light and find one another – as they were always going to? Does it mean it was meant to be?

Excerpt from The Show

In trepidation, hesitant, but drawn,

I make my way to catch a secret glimpse of what is being made

inside that theatre, the church of the heart,

that Roxy, tucked there in the heart of the town,

by the cenotaph, round the corner from the doctors, the solicitors,

in sight of the old courthouse and the park –

the Grand Lady. I move toward the warmth.

Sunday rain falls upon the dark afternoon. Steely

The light is that glassiest darkling grey, slicks of silver, platinum, pewter,

gunmetal, the anodized aching lonely light, sombre as prayer.

Oh Sunday, those winter Sundays, always the swiftly falling light

Into the dark afternoon, folding down to solemn evening….

..rounding the corner, the full import of that building rises up in me.

I bless the great old wall of red brick – beautiful,

giant, and unassuming, hundreds of russet bricks,

inset with the brown-shuttered windows high up, closed to the

light, rising up to the roofline….

This is sacred site, place of many dreamings.

I am anonymous now in this metallic gloom,

but oh, in the silent afternoons in my girlhood,

how I sat within these walls and wrote and dreamed of the big

things poured from my heart

and sang and dreamed and basked in it, and shafts of sifting golden

sun shot

through the high panes and lit my hands and filled me. Motes of

dust filtering slowly,

and the light, clandestine bright, that secret gold, shone into me..

and as I stand before the side door, the small brown door

inconspicuous in the great wall of brick, the old thrill rises..

signals a promise of the magic within.

And in the gloaming light, I come upon a secret world

that waits there in the ether, now conjured from air

in that space, rich and shadowy, older, echoing with whispers,

..and ghosts of dreams.. there in that place of dreaming, place of

yearning, are all things drawn together into

The Whole, each heart beating and the flesh and

spirit coalescing brilliantly and sweetly in

the shiny sparkly magic world. What is that Dark Matter

that cosmic scaffolding that holds us all, and thought

and love, in place, and adjudicates the

pull of gravities and galaxies within us and beyond?

Elusive as the perfect cadence, is the Dark Matter,

Destiny, and turning on a star, the Truth.

On that stage, are prophesies foretold, and

coming forth, bring us out of our

Dark Days….

(‘Mythica’, S.Tiffen, Ginninderra Press, 2006)

Triumph: Man of the Moment, 2018
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