Evensong

Echoes over Hampstead Heath, Spaniards Lane,
rekindle fires from Ages Past.
His early life is shaken by its roots.
The earth of Muswell Hill falls from his boots.
Here now present and future fast
fade back (and black) to past again.

 

Echoes up The Broadway, up the windy roads
past Ally Pally asquat its hill.
Here thirty years before a callow youth
had travelled every day in search of truth
(so he thought then). The real truth still
eludes him or occasionally implodes.

 

Echoes cross the Fenland fields to Cambridge
(Hallowed Be Thy Name), aglow, fired
by winter sun; steady continuum
through what has been to what is. Minimum
the changes here: King's College spired,
a beacon, his whole life privilege.

 

Echoes shake the vaults, shake his stony heart.
Countless candles shake to arranged
pure sound from thirty throats. How can such sound
sound so unchanged when thirty years to ground
have gone? Fresh boys to men all changed?
Should he change too and then depart?

 

Echoes deep in college: the hallowed room
low lit, aflutter; silver gleams, glasses
glitter, starched linens sheen, long polished
table yearly seats fourteen; demolished
inhibitions as they eat, all their pasts
digesting all their presents in the gloom.

 

Echoes track laughter, unsteady feet toeing
the frosty lawn to lodge; chapel looming
as a tomb, one side to grass, four spires to moon,
empty of boys, men, sound; silent, deathly.
“This time next year!” Oh, those handshakes! Earthly
gloam reveals real truth, still echoing.