The Journal Wk. 17
The Mirror and the Light: Wreckage (I)
Glass you are not
Brittle, breakable
But words, words, words
Interminable thoughts
And machinations, haunted still
By footsteps on the stairs
That you loved
Which are dead.
Better be a mirror
Silver, clearer,
More pleasing to the royal eye.
‘Tom Wyatt,’ he says, ‘let us have an end of this. You may think confession would ease your mind, and if that is what you think, send for a priest, say what you must, get your absolution and pay him for silence. But do not for God’s sake confess to me.’ He adds, softly, ‘You have come so far. You have done the difficult thing. You spoke when you should speak. Now speak no more.’
The Mirror and the Light, 13
Guard your tongue,
Confess not now —
For that time is past;
She is dead and you are here.
Take up the paper,
Burn your old words
And write anew —
Write, and do not speak.
The Journal is a section where I post weekly poems responding to Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy. Here’s last week’s edition:
