In Search of My Ancestors
The dark afternoons close in
winter is come, no sun, just grey skies
and a feeling of day's end at
This drawing in, this melancholic sadness
not yet understood
could it be winter's cadenza
to a thousand summers gone before ?
Or a closing down for long cold months
salted footpath, iced over waterway
snow, sleet and hail ?
could it be the heavy coats, hats and scarves
which must be donned day after day?
Or maybe this little island
must sleep the winter through
cradled, surrounded by slate-grey stormy seas,
cold wind breasting cliff and moor
snow cresting highland and valley
the lonely toll of church bell
deep in winter solstice solitude
hedgerows uniform and true
snake with little lanes into mysterious villages
where frail fingers part lace curtains
a longing to see something out of the ordinary
beyond the village, out through larger windows
to a world - exotic unknown
and yet, wrinkled eyes
behind the curtains fear anything different
anything foreign, anything that confronts
learned Victorian morals
fear any change of routine
for the tea must be served at four
no matter what earthly catastrophe
may descend
the war is remembered here as yesterday
old men puff their pipes and reminisce
for distance of time allows them now
some comfort of romanticism
all over the island
country fires blaze in iron grates
lights glow yellow
from stained glass window
smoke curls blending to grey
indiscernible against leaden sky
office workers stack back to back
in underground trains
fogged windows make snug capsules
of warm carriages
men nod to sleep, newspaper part read
motherly crones knit, sharp eye perusing
the tenants of this moving living room
and through the standing bodies
who cling to leather straps
push pimply adolescent punks
clinking of chains, black-leather sharp
against business suit and tie
spiked hair rebellious confronting
the short-trimmed civil-servant heads
crowds mill and swarm into Victoria Station
moving streams changing trains
for travel to distant parts of the island
comfortable matrons head south for Brighton
their shopping done exhausted they sit
eyes closed to sleep the journey through
back-packers queue for the night train
to meet the channel ferry, bearded
dishevelled, sleep-deprived
wandering hippy-gypsies
dreaming of the sun on Crete
spiced olives from Spain or Italy
of temples on the island of Cyprus
or the free-park in Amsterdam
or black-cabaret in Berlin
their young heads full
of Turkey or Greece
or sweet hashish fantasy
or climbing rocky gorges
or listening to stories the locals tell
or merely eating, warm in afternoon-cafes`.
Anglo-island memories
the people carry
of mediaeval plague
of kings and queens and druid rites
of ancient blood-lines and pagan times
misted in dark sacred forests
circles of granite stone
deep faerie chalice wells
hosted, kept alive in legend and folk-lore
love songs sung by the troubadour
live on in every sweet-voiced busker
in the heart of every tramp
and every nomad
in every lonely wayfarer
in every discontented traveller
desiring the freedom of wide sky
open road, bountiful fruit orchard
or the memories may be dogged
of hardship and poverty
of black charred cottage
of damp tuberculous coal-mine
of belching cotton mill
pounding iron-foundry
of wasting spirit
disintegrating ghost-town
overgrown factory
despair for the future
the jobless thousands
the poverty thrust down south
to London's cardboard cities
under bridges, demolition sites
soup kitchens, railway station benches
the tramps younger this year than last
the tulips in St James' Park
are free to look upon
the birds have flown to warmer parts
children skate on iced-over water
ignoring warning signs, young lovers walk
arms encircled clinging, as if this
their last day must be spent in love
Rolls Royces' disgorge the wealthy
at Mayfair Hotels where there is no winter
French and German tourists line-up
in
to the latest fad musical
at Leicester Square
actors Indian-file at the stage-door
waiting to audition, music librettos
clutched in their hands, pre-occupied
re-living dance routines in their head
memorizing shaky song-lyrics
psyching themselves
into some vibrant image
for the director listening out there
in the dark below the stage
where the audience usually is
but the theatre is empty cavernous
it's acoustics fabulous, it is so easy
up there on stage, to think one is a star
and will get a part in the play this day
out on the street the artist draws
soft pastel Rembrandt
to disappear in the first rain
a one-man-band does the theatre queue
his accomplice accosts cloth cap extended
money, always money
taxi-drivers swear and curse
at tourists who do not tip enough
the London traffic crawls
a bobby gives directions from an A to Z
young people diso-clothed step out to dance
into the morning, and the Hard Rock Cafe`
churns out mock American milk-shakes
for credulous teenagers
the soap-boxes in Hyde Park are occupied
by political agitators, very bad philosophers
occasional anarchists, and punk poets
who dream of oblivion -
the coming chaos of Capitalism
the crowds hover tentatively
reluctant to listen too deeply
for one might begin to believe
the message spelled out
for the average person
anything but rock the boat
so the speakers orate
to a cynical audience
who give only half an ear
before moving on
to have a 'nice cup of tea'
Pamela Sidney 1992
Hyde Park Spruiker
He could have been a young Omar Shariff
teeth gleaming, lips pouting
finely chiseled
gold glints on wrists and fingers
tailored suit, shirt snow white
wearing
he's confident in his
the bonus earned each Sunday
taking the rostrum at Speakers' Corner
French, English, Arabic at his command
he stands
passionately unfolding the tragedy
of the Palestinian people
in camps fifty years -
waiting for their State of Palestine
time off from busking at a loose end
standing in the crowd mesmerized
listening
when a heckler
shouts insults and racist slurs
the spruiker dealt swiftly with the 'plant'
he'd done this before – words his world
eloquent under harassment - the heckler
dissolved back into the crowd
meeting him later, instinct told me
he needs to remain a mystery
not too many prying questions
invited back to his
for coffee and conversation
he ushered me in through the door
checked efficiently behind curtains
under beds, inside cupboards
'in this business' he said
'You always check first – for bombs'
Pamela Sidney 2003
