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