SIBERIAN
SONG
Was I the hunter who came
down the valley's winding road
to thy door that icy
night when the frost lay hard,
Glistening in the moon's
windless kiss?
Were you thee who, sitting
by thy fire that still evening,
heard my numb knocking?
And, on answering, heard a
lame apology muttered into an untidy beard:
"I was passing
through this valley
And chanced to see a
candle burning in thy window" ...
You bade me enter and
-unrecognized- I stumbled in,
awkwardly brushing off
the hoar-frost, grateful to be
In thy warm cabin,
smelling the pine needles scenting the logs
burning redly in thy
fireplace.
Standing here, it seems so
long ago now,
my wanderings through the
taiga,
And the unending forests
of Kamchatka;
countless days the
journey,
Hearing in the pine's
sweeping whisper
the splendour of thy
name.
Those pitch-black nights
with only the wolves for company
and blind faith in the
guiding-star above,
Travelling the rapids of
many rivers,
chilled to the bone -so
cold, the soul
Would crack and be lost in
swirling icefloes ...
thus I made my way
through these lands,
Alone.
Now it seems so many moons
ago
when first I saw thy
lighted window
Glowing from afar -so
faint that, in the misty dawn,
I may have blinked,
Mistaking its shining
promise for another's guiding star.
Much time ago now -yes,
beyond the world's beginning-
when first I set foot
upon this Clear Land
By the green forests and
the bubbling shallows of the river Amur.
That evening, when I
heard thy sweet song
Echo in the valley; when I
saw thee bathing there,
the sun's last rays
playing on the violet foothills
Of distant mountains ...
Now but a trick of the
mind -returning to thy arms-
there to be lost in
endless joys!
Then! O, then! I brought
thee furs and fine things
from wondrous places!
Siberian gold and
amethyst, silk from China;
fabulous tales from
ancient Samarkand
And wild stories of the
Kamchatka;
amber from the Baltic
coasts
And the undying wisdom of
Himalaya!
Then! O, then! We were
lost in such dreams!
But, today, what have I
for thee?
Only my old fur hat -once
the pelt
Of an unmourned bear-
which you don so prettily now,
so innocently beautiful
that my heart burst with adoration.
Yet, what art thou but a
fleeting dream of many pasts?
Having lived many another
time,
Hearing many another song,
what is this strange
melody I hear now in unseen skies?
Empty-handed, what may I
offer thee?
Every gift wished away
recklessly in a thousand brawling taverns,
My soul trodden under
their dirty soil? What may I offer thee
but wild-eyed reveries
and misremembered memories
Still unredeeemed?
What right do I have to
stand in thy door,
unsure in sense of place,
Yet drawn here to
proclaim, flatly, my existence
as if it matters that
much now,
My mind lost in many
pasts, floating like so many felled
logs to the ocean?
Sitting by thy fire, o
golden one, I sought
answers in thy numbed
heart
And feigned surprise, not
finding any.
Tongue-tied, dry-mouth'd
heart-shackl'd,
I wondered how brief was
this respite
before the weary journey
and the searching must go on.
We sat like this, deep
into the night,
until you yawned and felt
sleep approach thee.
Knowing that the time had
come again
I thanked thee and bade
farewell.
Then -before facing my
wilderness home- I kissed thee awkwardly,
as one might shyly kiss
one's first love ...
RW, first draft,
29.XII.84, latest draft, 15.XII.92.
Copyright, Rory Winter 2013
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