When It's All Over

 

 

Nicholas Hely Hutchinson

 

When It's All Over

 

I'm going to throw open my windows and yell: 'hallelujah',

dial up friends in the middle of the night to give them

the glad tidings, e-mail New South Wales and Pacific Palisades,

glorify the kitchen by making sixteen summer puddings,

watch blackberry purple soak slowly into 

the bread and triumph over the curved glass of the bowls.

 

When it's all over I'll feed my cracked skin

with lavender and aloe vera, lower my exhausted body into

foaming cream, clear honey and let it wallow,

reward it with a medal, beautify it with garlands of thornless roses

wrap it in sleep,Then from the tents of blurred dreams

I'll leap like a kangaroo, spout like a whale.

Once it's over I'm going to command my computer to bellow

'Land of Hope and Glory', loudspeaker my news

down these miles of orderly streets where the houses wear

mock Tudor beams and plastic Greek columns, dance

the Highland Fling in front of controlled tubs of cockerel geraniums

sigh with enormous satisfaction when I make the evening headlines.

When it's finally over I'm going to gather these fantasies,

fling them into my dented and long-lost college trunk,

dump it in the unused cellar

            climb back to strength

                        up my rope of words.

Myra Schneider

 

Gabriele Munter

Yes, when it's all over. That's my effort against cynicism right there. It's easier to be cynical. Hope is harder. And optimism feels downright ridiculous considering what has happened in this country these last years. 

But in order to stand, the people need a vision, a goal. Like Martin Luther King Jr., we need a dream. 

Imagine what feasts we're going to lay out. What gatherings of unlikely souls we're going to join. What numbers of strangers we will laugh with and embrace. What spontaneity of gestures and stories we will tell. What singing there will be in the streets. What upwellings of thankfulness and generosity will be shown. What praise will be given to God. What reunions will be enacted among us.

It's not easy to envision when the opposite plays out before our eyes. 

But as Good Denys says,"Courage, mon ami! La diable est mort!"

Let's prepare.

Let's dream against the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

First Steps, Brancaster

Nicholas Hely Hutchinson

First Steps, Brancaster

This is the day to leave the dark behind you
Take the adventure, step beyond the hearth,
Shake off at last the shackles that confined you,
And find the courage for the forward path.
You yearned for freedom through the long night watches,
The day has come and you are free to choose,
Now is your time and season.
Companioned still by your familiar crutches,
And leaning on the props you hope to lose,
You step outside and widen your horizon.

After the dimly burning wick of winter
That seemed to dull and darken everything
The April sun shines clear beyond your shelter
And clean as sight itself. The reed-birds sing,
As heaven reaches down to touch the earth
And circle her, revealing everywhere
A lovely, longed-for blue.
Breathe deep and be renewed by every breath,
Kinned to the keen east wind and cleansing air,
As though the blue itself were blowing through you.

You keep the coastal path where edge meets edge,
The sea and salt marsh touching in North Norfolk,
Reed cutters cuttings, patterned in the sedge,
Open and ease the way that you will walk,
Unbroken reeds still wave their feathered fronds
Through which you glimpse the long line of the sea
And hear its healing voice.
Tentative steps begin to break your bonds,
You push on through the pain that sets you free,
Towards the day when broken bones rejoice

Malcolm Guite



“This is the day.”
“The day has come.”
“Now is your time.” 

Walking into freedom, into healing, into a new season – with nature encouraging and welcoming – who wouldn’t want to respond to that invitation?! Who wouldn’t want to step outside?

Probably the best incentive to get some fresh air I’ve ever come across.

Winter Beachhead

Nicholas Hely Hutchinson

Winter Beachhead

This is the starkest hour of the shore
when it’s purged and cleansed as a Sabbath door.
There’s a brim of lather when the tide’s in
as the waves go on with their day’s washing.

No valved or spiralled or saucered whelk,
no mussel or scallop quiets my walk;
but I make my count, as they cease from sight,
of a head of barnacle geese, a cell of eight.

They sail in their glory; we have to bide our time
and hold out for the fullness to come—
for spring sands merry with foxes’ tails,
or kelp tresses, for clam and cowrie shells.

Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill

translated by Medbh McGuckian

“We have to bide our time.” That’s just it. Waiting for Spring has become an exercise in long-suffering, that beautiful old word for patience. It’s March now, and there’s still snow on the lawn. I like that “this is the starkest hour”, with bare trees and no colours – it’s not just the shore that is bleak. I’m holding out for “the fullness to come”, that’s for certain.