So we were on our way,
down the hill from Hunstanton, back -
the bright day'd driven off the frost
super-abundant sunlight chiming,
car fan-heater kicking-in,
simulating summer breeze,
Mm -
on the radio some J.S. Bach,
two part, the left hand bumbling about
like my father looking through crammed drawers
that stick, for the proper tool,
the right hand, I,
as a boy, piping and trying
for his attention with some daft idea.
Hmm? Hmm? He's preoccupied
but smiles at his lad's proximity,
raises a bushy eyebrow,
tries to entertain my train of thought;
then some idle rummage of his restive hand
turns up the implement
he sought. At that very moment
he has a reply:
'It's all so long ago
and yet Bach tells it all again,
and any time might be coaxed so -
portable (immortal too
until that cosmic sun-storm stew
or brute dystopia rend our wiles)
in books, discs, USB drives,
car radio, RAM of cellphone,
theatre.
Strike them down in one avatar,
they shall return more powerful.
Not so all arts, nor houses,
draw what you will of wings or eyes
over coffin lids, scribble spells on;
we play what we can
on reverie, dream.
Ah, Heraclitus, step in the stream.'
