Shadowlands

is this the sum total of your shadow-life?
your dull reflection of time wasted in shade
hidden there, head against the roof tiles
singing your song, the same song you've sang
since you were a child, since songs have been sung
the old ones fed you these words, these tales and lies
and you lapped them up, these mahogany myths
as you stared at the Christmas baubles and the Grenadier Guards
the smell of the gramophone and the pipe smoke
the county lines changing around them and the aliens up the road
harsh accents, harsh faces
shaped by different times, harder than theirs
you thought you had known safety and peace laying there
on Christmas Eve with the hot water bottle now stone cold under your feet
the transfer set moonscapes and desert lands scraped shadow men against shadow lands
the pencil pressed too hard here and there and the transparency
pulled too quickly, so that heads and limbs were missing
half men walking on a barren soil that felt as real
as the field outside where the tough boys playedyou looking on, not tough enough or brave enough to join in

'oh here i am sitting in my tin can, far far from home'

you sang the song sat in the old cherry tree and you liked it there
high enough to see the top of the shed roof and not be seen
alone, yet happy enough in solitude and the songs of loneliness
not so far far from home, not here, the shadow of the house
cooling the garden, deadening the roses and crab apple bushes
the wind cold against your face, hot treacle melting in the pan
solidifying in the tray black and brittle, now hammer shattered
you place a sharp triangular lump in your mouth and suck
black spit dripping down the side of your chin and in your head
it's 2030 or 1869 not 1973 and the map of the world is different
the old house isn't there and the cherry tree is gone
and the old songs and stories are yet to be sung or are long forgotten
and the Christmas bauble reflects back only the room of the record sleeve
the Grenadier Guards no longer ‘talk of Hector and Lysander’
there is a cold wind blowing through the forest
there is a ridge of ice where the river once ran
there is the sound of birds and the homes of men
but not the birds you know, not the men you recognise
the room is empty save for the old bed frame and the sideboard
old wood and he knows this is now his time, his myth-time too