The Academi Cardiff International Poetry Competition

David Hart

And following them

And following them without instructions the musicians,
and following them without microphones the commentators,
and following them in this bright light the sleepwalkers,
and following them on knees the old painter,
and following him painted red like thighs an Abrams M1A2 tank,
 the crew in wizards’ hats, their eyes shining, their ears dead,
and following the tank the Generals in their frocks with medals,
 slipping and sliding, two of them in tears, waving their hankies,
and here come the embroidered banners as if carried by no-one and
 caught by the sea breeze, shat on by gulls, out from the museum,
and after them the lone Minister, with briefcase and sandwiches,
and following the Minister a cartload of cyanide for the fish,
and following a little way behind a woman who is thinking.

She is thinking of newspapers thrown overboard from a ferry,
she is thinking of all that news getting washed out of the paper,
she thinks of the ink darkening the waves in patterns,
the black blood floating free out of the opinion columns
smirking this not that in the world where consciousness
has yet to be understood, O my Giddy Aunt the Renaissance!
She thinks of the paper folded and refolded by blue-grey waves,
opened up and turned, opened up and turned again, opened up
and folded, opened up again, bundled soggy, disintegrating,
word-flesh leaving the body towards its utmost reclusiveness,
the big news and the small news all washed out togehter.
She see letters under the sea, she sees the ink that spoke
for the lover mixing with the ink from the other.
She is thinking the paper bare of all its words now, bare of them all.

And following the woman who is thinking come the sellers of souvenirs,
and following the sellers of souvenirs the actors dressed as monks,
and following the actors dressed as monks the thin, sick trumpeters,
and after them the nurses pushing the beds of the almost dead,
and after the nurses pushing the almost dead come the postmen
casting letters into the crowd for anyone to catch,
and following the postmen the baby trying to walk like a soldier,
and, after the baby trying to walk like a soldier, the glass-blowers,
and after the glass-blowers, the road itself, curling.