John Mole
A Pattern
Deep in the heartland of our common tongue
is a forest darker than we had imagined.
Darker still the language spoken there,
its quarrel with us set up out of hearing.
Once we believed the story of an ogre,
that virtue was a blade to cut him down,
that conscience was clear and needed no translation,
that when he roared he gave himself away.
Now there are voices from the undergrowth
which speak through faces in the bark of trees,
bearded or clean-cut, all of them are his
ventriloquising shades of villainy and truth.
Lost within words, we try to spell a pattern,
hope against hope, articulate design,
abandoned children, orphans starting homeward
along the track creation brings to light.
Page(s) 8
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