oddstruck

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Sea tongue
By Kevin Crossley-Holland

I am the bell.
I’m the tongue of the bell.
I was cast before your grandmother was a girl.
Before your grandmother’s grandmother.
So long ago

Listen now! I’m like to last.
I’m gold and green, cast in bronze, I weigh two tons.
Up here, in the belfry of this close church,
I’m surrounded by sounds.
Mouthfuls of air. Words ring me.

High on this crumbling cliff,
I can see the fields of spring and summer corn;
They’re green and gold, as I am
I can see the shining water, silver and black,
And the far fisherman on it.
And look! Here comes the bellringer – the old bellwoman

I am the bellwoman
For as long as I live, I’ll ring this old bell.
For those who will listen

Not the church people: they have all gone.
Not the seabirds; not the lugworms;
Not the inside-out crabs nor the shining mackerel.
Whenever storm shatter the glass or fogs take me by the throat,
I ring for the sailor and the fisherman.
I warn them off the quicksand and away from the crumbling cliff.
I ring and save them from the sea-god

I am the sea-god.
My body is dark; it’s so bright you can scarcely look at me;
So deep you cannot fathom me.
My clothing is salt-fret raised by the four winds,
Twisting shreds of mist, shining gloom.
And fog, fog, proofed and damp and cold.
I’ll wrap them round the fisherman.
I’ll wreck his boat

I remember the days when I rule the earth
I ruled her all –every grain and granule – and I’ll rule her again
I’ll gnaw at this crumbling cliff tonight.
I’ll undermine the church and its graveyard
I’ll chew the bones on the dead

We are the dead
We died in bed, we died on the sword,
We fell out of the sky, we swallowed the ocean.
To come to this: the green graveyard with its rows of narrow beds.
Each of us separate and all of us one.

We lived in time and we’re still wrapped in sound and movement –
Gull-glide, gull swoop.
We live time out, long bundles of bone bedded in the cliff

I am the cliff
Keep away from me.
I’m jumpy and shrinking, unsure of myself.
I may let you down badly.

Layers and bands, boulders and gravel and grit and little shining stones:
These are earth’s bones.
But the sea-god keeps laughing and crying and digging and tugging.
I scarcely know where I am and I know time is ending.

Fences. Red flags. Keep away from me.
I’m not fit for the living.

We are the living
One night half of a cottage – Peter’s cottage –
Bucketed down into the boiling water and he was left
Standing on the edge of the cliff in his night-shirt.

After that, everyone wanted to move inland.
We had no choice. You’ve only to look at the cracks.
To listen to the sea-god’s hollow voice!

Every year he come closer.
Gordon’s cottage went down. And Martha’s. And Ellen’s.
The back of the village became the front.
And now what’s left?
Only the bellwoman’s cottage,
And the empty shell of the church

I am the church.

I remember the days when the bellows wheezed for the organ to play.
I remember when people got down an their knees and prayed.
I’ve weathered such storms.
Winds tearing at the walls, flint-and-brick, salt winds howling.

And now, tonight, this storm.
So fierce, old earth herself is shaking and shuddering.
Ah! Here comes the old bellwoman.

I am the bellwoman
There! Those lights, stuttering and bouncing.
There’s a boat out there, maybe ten.

Up, up these saucer steps as fast as I can. Up!

Here in this mouldy room, I’ll ring and ring and ring,
And set heaven itself singing, until my palms are raw.
I’ll drown the sea-god!

I am the sea-god
And I keep clapping my luminous hands.

Come this way, fisherman, over the sea’s bath and her along the cockle path.
Here are the slick quicksands, and they will have you.

Fisherman, come this way over the gull’s road and the herring-haunt!
Here, up against this crumbling cliff.
Give me your boat.

I am the boat.
To keep afloat; to go where my master tells me:
I’ve always obeyed the two commandments.

Now my master says forward but the sea-god says back.
My master says anchor but the night-storm says drag.
My deck is a tangle of lines and nets and ropes:
My old heart’s heavy with sluicing dark water.
I’m drowning; I’m torn apart.

Groan and creak: I quiver; I weep salt.
Shouts of the fishermen.
Laughter of the sea-god.
Scream of the night-storm

I am the night-storm. I AM THE STORM.

Down with the bell and down with the belfry
Down on the white head of the bell woman.
Down with the whole church and the tilting graveyard.
Down with the cliff itself, cracking and opening and sliding and collapsing.
Down with them all into the foam-and-snarl of the sea.

I’m the night-storm and there will be no morning.

I am the morning
I am good morning.

My hands are white as doves, and healing.
Let me lay them on this purple fever.
Let them settle on your boat. Nothing lasts foe ever.
Let me give you back your eyes, fisherman.

I am the fisherman.
I heard the bell last night.
Joe and Grimus and Pug, yes, we all did!
I heard the bell and dropped anchor.
But there is no bell.
There’s no church, there’s no belfry along this coast.
Where am I? Am I dreaming?

Well! God blessed this old boat and our haul of shiners.
He saw fit to spare us sinners.
We’ll take our bearings now, and head for home.

But I heard the bell! And now! I can hear it!
Down, down under the boat’s keel.
I can hear the bell.

I am the bell.
I am the tongue of the bell, gold and green, far under the swinging water.

I ring and ring, in fog and storm, to save boats from the quicksands and the rocky shore.
I’m like to last; I’m cast in bronze, I weigh two tons.

Listen now! Can you hear me?
Can you hear the changes of the sea?

-

Piczo