 |
| Sandro Botticelli, Mystic Nativity |
We moved out of the family home where we'd lived since we came to Bristol from Harare in 1988, and bought a flat in the centre of Bristol. We love the new lifestyle that brings us, dividing our time between the flat and the houseboat in London. Dave has swapped the allotment and garden in Bristol for the life of an ageing urban hipster, and I'm still enjoying academic life. Morven, Dan and Rory are living in Bristol, and Seren and David and Jo and Freddie all moved there during the year - though Jo doesn't think she can resist the lure of returning to London. Dylan is still in London, and spends much of his time travelling for work. So among our very nearest and dearest, life feels rich and lovely, with much to be thankful for.
After a couple of years of declining health, my stepfather Guy died in April, the day after we returned from a trip to Australia, and my Mum had a stroke and died in July. They were gentle and peaceful passings, but I feel rinsed through with sadness and I wish that the last couple of years of their lives had not been so difficult in so many ways. Their funerals brought the family together to say farewell, so there were days of riotous mourning with my beautiful, beloved sisters.
These personal loves and losses have been played out against the darkening horizons of our political landscape, so that we enter the new year full of uncertainty about what lies ahead. Neo-liberalism has been a harsh and unjust political ideology, but I fear that it will ultimately be strengthened rather than defeated by the political choices that the British and North American people have made these last few months.
All this means that my Christmas poem this year is written with a sense of melancholy, where hope persists alongside the sadness and apprehension that are also part of life right now.
The poem is
an echo of memories and voices – half-remembered lines of poems, a quiet grief
for those who have died during the year, memories of the beach by my mother’s flat on the Firth of
Clyde, and of long walks on the Jurassic Coast where Dave and I spent a weekend
in the autumn. The title comes from the mood of the year that is passing, the
dread of the year that is to come, and the quiet hope that the Christ child
brings, in the midst of the world’s sorrow and pain.
HAUNTINGS
The sea does not roar
but rattles and sucks
in the silver light
on the shingle shore
like the laboured sighing
of my mother’s dying.
In the labours and gasps
of the suckling waves
are the slavering rasps
of the cold, cold coming
of the beasts that are
slouching, slouching,
to be born again.
Europa raped by the slouching beast
and orphaned children birthed
in the mud and the blood
of the ravaged earth.
No room, no room, no room at the inn.
No angels’ hymn.
Does hope still flutter
fragile as breath
between the lips of the newborn crying
and the old man dying?
Amidst the stench and straw –
no room, no room –
the beasts keep watch,
and warm the earth
with their gentle breath.
Come, come to Bethlehem,
And let us learn from them.
Finally, Leonard Cohen's song Anthem has been a source of inspiration through this challenging year. I share it here with love to all our friends:
