I wouldn’t really call this a poem, but poem is the best word I can think of to describe what this is at present. Based on previous work, this text is derived from the first 19 pages of the book ‘Pilgrims of the Wild.’
[3]Outside a window stands silent, the surroundingcovered with heavy water sleep.
There is no sound and no movement
dropping through the
closed rude
earth. [4]a man
advancing with resolute step
But for the heavy steps,
there is silence [5]time Meanwhile
emerges
from a hole in the day before
and
pulls impatiently [6-7]at the window stops Outside
the so-lately deserted
Silence
the Extraordinary story
that lies behind this scene [8-9]The town dipped and scattered
White to a maze
Reduced though it might be,
this year was feeling choked
The farewell celebrations
were coming my way;
singing a low
whispering dirge [10]It was an arduous
empty return journey
A disastrous ground
barren, burnt out
tortured East so rumour had it
Much of my route lay through
unrecognisable miles
existing I passed on
wondering what lay ahead
sorrowfully living [11]still worrying
I met some old faces, who made
history in these parts;
a landmark in the
town [12-13]to get the feel of it again:
What did it all mean;
earlier days, undisturbed
kept alive by many old originals, waiting
days had passed into legend
respected by men
Time was rolling back
like a receding tide
adventurers, seeking the satisfaction
found in untouched territory
a strange, new, trail.
This place held memories
They had to stay [14]a journey was made
that covered miles
occupied years
there had been a girl, cultured,
talented [15]Most of my time
had been spent in solitude
I resented any infringement on my freedom
one of those unusual people [16]looking behind
These things were very dear to me
they were real people
who walked beside me;
features brought to my attention
one by one [17]I remember the hair
But far, far more
I discovered time
as it is now,
one with our own [18-19]born only too often
yards heavy in view
I began to feel with a pencil in hand
the body, marking the outline
where the wind shaped against her form
proceeding to cut
I stood in apprehensive silence
and viewed the slaughter
out of which was constructed
the word best fitting
the impression which I gained
we had considered sending them back,
though we never did;
lonely at times vaguely uncomfortable
in those days the weather singing winter
through the window
sunsets were often good to look at
we arose before daylight and travelled all night
they had waited patiently, wishing
She was, she said becoming jealous
blind hatred could not see
and dreamed lines of traps