the desire to return to a warmer land

In time of departures, thinking of returns.

Longing.

Though I know I shouldn't, I shouldn't -- but what the hell.


(It will pass, as all things pass.)

The separation


The time came when the desire to return
grew so strong that certain songs would automatically produce
the physical pain of real longing
just because they were markers of former street-days

the restraint was hard to bear
when the cold closed for the year

when the thaw might come was a speculation
too distant to have much reality

The orchestra would come and go
and there seemed no regulation by which
one could plot or know their movements
yet at each appearance they never failed to chill
me with their blank faces and uncompromising playing
It was as though "I" wasn't there,
as though it was all a self-supporting film
The leader of the orchestra would advance
towards me yet his eyes were set beyond me
It was so unbearable that I was forced to stay -
though the pleasure of mute acceptance was denied me
- their movements settled this
Many days were passed waiting in suspense for the next appearance

When the sun shone you could see the cliffs
and seashore across
The little boats bobbed in the harbour

That the pain was doubly hard to bear since
it involved such self-restraint as to
not gulp down the remedy which was
a bottle with "answer" crudely printed out on the label -
the symbolism of this went too far

If a ticket was bought it could only mean one thing
and there waiting on the other shore
was a table loaded down with childish treats
and lots of cuddly bears romped all round the table
I had almost packed my knapsack
before I realised the spell might break

I had tooted the car-horn for almost half an hour
outside their new house before I realised
       they might not want to come out

The old photo had faded and was now very worn
It was more than a matter of recognition

Yet underneath the forest even when the glacier
threatened imminent extinction
the desire to return to a warmer land
was as fierce as ever and no dangers
even in the form of pawnshop windows that displayed
neat rows of pistols and automatics - each with its neat blue
price tag hanging down so prettily - could deter me

It was a necessity to be continually reckoned with
even at the height of ecstasies;
the ice-cold chewed deeper
It hurt when the "answer" was realised
and the whole camp stood silent for a minute


--Lee Harwood, from The White Room in Collected Poems (Exeter: Shearsman, 2004), pp. 61-62.

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