It’s not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me

Let old faiths sleep in their boxes. There’ll be time,
time enough for them.

Hear the wind machine rising, low at first --
a jungle wind headed for Kilimanjaro, humming
across tar swamps and wide frozen rivers.

Open the shutters and look westward.
There, the lighthouse. There, the clipper ship.

Forget the cairn of ancient bones on the high ground.
Invent new typographies of divination;
read a succession of railway stations, landing stages.

Strangers will come to your door.
Don’t buy indulgence, no matter how good the bargain.

Learn the language of true believers:
rowanberries dropped from heaven, blood-red
crab apples spreading over the ocean.

Let anyone on Walrus Street tell your fortune,
and know it’s but a last-ditch cure for forgetfulness.

Some dreams are larger than the slow night.
Wind well your lantern clock. Take nothing with you,
take no encounter at face value.

When the winds howl, play a coronach.
Every day at sundown I lay the cards for you.


Jane Røken