Poetry

Night Walk

I

We happen upon a reservoir,

almost invisible at this dark hour -

mist fills up the torch beam

shone to the surface.

My father and I kill our electrics,

for a moment low grey cloud

glows from the silvering water. The land about

is black below the horizon,

hidden by the night which

bore us to our present place.

Our path from here is not

straight forward, and the midst of our lives

finds us benighted.

Possessed of an approximate route,

my father holds a compass

in his dedicated hands,

sends me off ahead for many paces,

shouting me to right or left until

when I turn around, my torch beam

runs and matches his needle: straight south.

I wait for him to follow and follow

he does, south towards his lighthouse.

Together once again

we shine our torches to the night,

beams billowing with fog.

With torches off we just make out

the lie of the land: the slopes, dips and tops.

My father points his walking stick south,

sends me off. I pick my path

through heather and reed on the soggy heath,

seeing only small shrubs

shrinking in arcane darkness,

the torch-beam contracting my pupils.

‘Stop!’ he shouts, ‘A bit to the left!’

I turn round, locate

his yellow pin-prick in the featureless night

floating spirit-like, growing

as he moves into range. Again,

he sends me away into hollow space,

and when I stop to wait I listen

… … … … … … …

… … … … … … …

a pool of torchlight

bleeds into the void.

II

Loyal as Tip, my father returns.

His face, dimly lit

hides his eyes below his

brow, defines cheek-bones

above black pits, the line of a jaw.

I reach over, place my hand on his,

feel the cold in his fingers

as I grasp the compass.

Gently I hold his aging body

from falling into nothing.

My charge –

without me he’s past hope.

Ahead lies a forest, trees

that change the horizon

from a sweep to a spiked

and jagged stop:

presence and pressure

in the fog of our lights,

I strain my eyes

but cannot see.

My mind scratches-out

for form, for other

than what my heart

in all its softness

is but a part of.

The trees upon us now,

a pine-needled floor

absorbing all sound.

Mark Doyle