LISTEN. THIS IS THE NOISE OF MYTH
This is the story of a man and woman
under a willow and beside a weir
near a river in a wooded clearing.
They are fugitives. Intimates of myth.
Fictions of my purpose. I suppose
I shouldn't say that yet or at least
before I break their hearts or save their lives
I ought to tell their story and I will.
When they went first it was winter; cold,
cold through the Midlands and as far West
as they could go. They knew they had to go-
through Meath, Westmeath, Longford,
their lives unravelling like the hours of light-
and then there were lambs under the snow
and it was January, aconite and jasmine
and the hazel yellowing and puce berries on the ivy.
They could not eat where they had cooked,
nor sleep where they had eaten
nor at dawn rest where they had slept.
They shunned the densities
of trees with one trunk of caves
with one dark and the dangerous embrace
of islands with a single landing place.
And all the time it was cold, cold:
the fields still gardened by their ice,
the trees stitched the snow overnight,
the ditches full; frost toughening lichen,
darning lace into rock crevices.
And then the woods flooded and buds
blunted from the chestnut and the foxglove
put its big leaves out and chaffinches
chinked and flirted in the branches of the ash.
And here we are where we started from-
under a willow and beside a weir
near a river in a wooded clearing.
the woman and the man have come to rest.
Look how light is coming through the ash.
The weir sluices kingfisher blues.
The woman and the willow tree lean forward, forward.
Something is near; something is about to happen;
something more than Spring
and less than history. Will we see
hungers eased after months of hiding?
Is there a touch of heat in that light?
If they stay here soon it will be summer; things
returning, sunlight fingering minnowy deeps,
seedy greens, reeds, electing lights
and edges from the river. Consider
legend, self-deception, sin, the sum
of human purposes and its end; remember
how our poetry depends on distance,
aspect: gravity will bend starlight.
Forgive me if I set the truth to rights.
Bear with me if I put an end to this:
She never turned to him; she never leaned
under the sallow-willow over to him.
They never made love; not there; not here;
not anywhere; there was no winter journey;
no aconite, no birdsong and no jasmine,
no woodland and no river and no weir.
Listen. This is the noise of myth. It makes
the same sound as shadow. Can you hear it?
Daylight greys in the preceptories.
Her head begins to shine
pivoting the planets of a harsh nativity.
They were never mine. This is mine.
This sequence of evicted possibilities.
Displaced facts. Tricks of light. Reflections.
Invention. Legend. Myth. What you will.
The shifts and fluencies are infinite.
The moving parts are marvellous. Consider
how the bereavements of the definite
are easily lifted from our heroine.
She may or she may not. She was or wasn't
by the water at his side as dark
waited above the Western countryside.
O consolations of the craft.
How we put
the old poultices on the old sores,
the same mirrors to the old magic. Look.
The scene returns. the willow sees itself
drowning in the weir and the woman
gives the kiss of myth her human heat.
Reflections. Reflections. He becomes her lover.
The old romances make no bones about it.
The long and short of it. The end and the beginning.
The glories and the ornaments are muted.
And when the story ends the song is over.
--Eavan Boland
