The World as it Might Have Been

‘Hold your mirror high’ he said

‘let it settle where light falls.

Hang a budding branch

watch it slowly turn to gold.’

 

We’d sat beside the river

near the gardens of the cathedral

close to where the slip kilns

tempered the clay.

 

I told him the world was round

and everyone was inside it.

I told him I believed in a secret

world that opened the heart.

 

He looked bemused (Who

could blame him ?) ‘Can you sing,

young man ? Don’t be shy!

Sing and reveal yourself

 

to those who dare to listen.’

His breath smelt of onions.

His hair was like a weeping

willow of silvery grey wisps.

 

He whispered: ‘The world is yours

and the world is mine. Ours

are not lives that existed before.

The dreams that ruled our soul

 

have been forgotten by

new worlds that are yet

to pass us by.’ I left him

then and prayed for the world

 

that is – a world that speaks

its own unspoken truth.

‘Remember what I said!

Only we can reflect its light!

 

Only we can reflect its goodness!’

He shouted these things and laughed

as he scavenged for his supper.

It was the laughter of madness

 

grappling with fear - an uncomfortable

laughter that followed me home; a laugh

of great sadness hidden amongst stones

resting deep within the world as it might

   have been.