This
solitary juggernaut of bones
for ever
balanced on the marble plain
looms
above me.
Light
filters through the opaque roof
hen coop
wire trapped in glass.
I clutch
the stout cardboard ticket
comfortingly
firm
date and
number cleanly stamped.
The bulk
of this building unnerves me
I am
breathing inside a stone monster.
I listen
to the sounds –
chiselled
clicks of a man’s steel tipped heels
the shoosh
of my rubber soled sandals
whispers
that scuttle round the silent body
like a
mouse.
Everything
is watching me – the walls,
the
dinosaur, the attendant in the next room.
Suddenly
amid the
basement’s classical columns
Humperdinck’s
Hansel and Gretel roars
on a giant
pianola, baroque machines
burst into
life, steam engines
are fired,
brass pistons plunge, everywhere
belts and
flywheels flail like a fantastic
Emett
animation.
The smell
of metal polish, whale oil lubricant,
the damp
of my father’s harris tweed jacket
(a whiff
of the Western Isles, coasters,
seaweed,
mines, quarries).
In his
pocket the clip of a biro
catches
the light
as he
bends down to usher me
into the
same magic quarter
of the
revolving door.
© Mary Robinson 2010
This poem
is the first poem in my collection The
Art of Gardening (Flambard Press 2010).
I dedicated the collection to my father.
Now I am republishing the poem on my blog in his memory. As a child I loved visiting museums with
him. A special treat was to catch the
train into Birmingham on a cold, wet, winter Saturday (in summer we would be
outdoors) and visit the Science Museum or the Art Gallery. He taught me to be interested in everything
and to write about it. I will miss his
companionship, generosity and sense of humour.
James Hastings Ball (1921 – 2014)
