A day out in Stratford,

the November day brutally sunny,

the thin air of satisfaction multiplied

and the low down Sun blinding the eyes

and warming the soul

as fish and chips are eaten in Rio open air

and the taste of Greasepaint and the ghost

of Hamlet fills the Time.

 

I imagine the small boy of eight,

the day trip taken from Moor Street

Station past the furthest reaches

of Acocks Green and my grandfather’s garage

with spinning top drivers and the forgotten clippie girl

painting her nails and the small Players

No 6, green dominating packs, adding perfuming to the day shift

as we sail on past with the family pet in tow

and the Birmingham rain driving us on…

 

…and he sits beside me, he smiles at nothing

for he cannot see me skulking in the fields

of the days unseen, never to understand what was to

become of him but the tales of Shakespeare

already running through his head

and the grim fascination of Lady Macbeth

drowning her sorrows

in a public house off Rother Street

and the taste of chips fattening his blood.

 

The sun was out,

it blazed like a fallen bomb and burst with valour

and its energy enthused the soul,

the rain, left far behind,

but still in the Warwickshire heart,

no blood upon the Avon,

no damned spot unturned in future reading.

 

A day out in Stratford, the all Hallows Eve affair

and the beauty of memory not realised

catches my soul off guard

as I realise that I am smiling

at myself.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015