After those months
at sea, we stank
worse than the Ark.
Faeces of all
species, God’s first
creation, cooped
human and brute,
between wind and
water, bound for
this pegged-out plain
in the land called
Shinar, or some-
thing. Give or take
some chiliads, I’ll
have been born there.
Saint Babel’s tower
with spire (sundry
versions of that)
stuck not far short
of a top (Wait
for it!) gilded
to catch first light
or last flame flung
by the torched snows
farthest west.
Four
shiploads of us.
Under its breath
a warm land breeze,
wind of our coming,
breathed Shit!
Lightered ashore,
our cabin trunks,
rust-freckled steel-
braced outside, inside
compartments kept
things lavendered,
smothered memories
of sweats and smears.
For laters. Boxroom
dry dreams, our child-
hood’s indoors, wet
holiday games ...
2.
We wanted it
above all (except
heaven) to make
the world out there
aware, if there’s
any such world,
as if to cry
Look! Look at me!
Very old story.
Some other time.
Before all this.
Before history ran
out of excuses ...
3.
I, the present
writer, that is,
can see the Rev.
F.G. Brittan,
octogenarian
of stertorous
pulpit delivery,
who also told
the time by the ding
and the tink-tink
simply by a squeeze
of his silver watch:
seated beside
the vicarage fire
‘after Service’:
who, babe-in-arms
(his mother’s) came
ashore that day
where four ships lay
under the steep
hills, beyond which
an unbuilt city was
unpaved wetlands,
too near, too far
from unclimbed alps.
Settlers made shift
improvising
themselves. In shock.
Still do. Still are.
Only the games
they play ...
4.
To relocate the
top of the world,
obviously Everest
has to be moved –
South Latitude
thirty-three West
Longitude one-
eighty-three, where
Kermadec Trench
ten thousand metres
deep floored with ‘fine
volcanic ash,
aeolian dust’
drowns mountains.
New Zealand side
of the Date Line
meaning, those shores,
Raoul Island, any
Kermadec reef
cries to the sun,
Me! Me! This day
dawns first on me,
you won’t find that
in your King James
nor Maori story
of a half-god’s
trap for the sun,
that sun ...
which one?
Which thousand years?
5.
Next time you look,
he will have stepped
out of the shade
the West Front casts
into a sun-stuffed
ambulatory called
Cathedral Square.
His buttoned black
gaiters encase
his shanks. The Dean
of Saint Babel’s
rig of the day.
One more step, he’s
joined by a friend,
silk hat, frock coat,
silver-knobbed cane.
Their morning walk.
What makes the tower
burst but thunderclappers
newly hung, high
peal deafeningly
detonating,
the Dean’s delight,
Are not those bells
Divine?
Silk hat,
hand cupped on ear,
shouts back, What’s that?
and Gaiters, Divine!
And he, What? What?
Can’t make it out –
Sorry, Mister Dean,
can’t hear a word
for those DAMNED BELLS.
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