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Born in water beyond the Pillars of Hercules on the Tin Isles
which were pithily characterised by Aristotle as ‘cold and wet’,
I burst through the waves Aphrodite-style,
except more impudent and less modest,
to be swaddled in the morning fogs that rise from the River Cray.
They say the signs were auspicious, an osprey diving to pluck
a perch from a lake, or a gull with a big piece of bread in its beak,
something like that; it was clear I was destined for greatness.

Then I left, and where the land locks horns with the sky;
where Herodotus dined on the honey of wild bees in thick forest;
where peaceful shepherds roamed the hills singing
to shepherdesses both coy and bold - there I picked through
the remnants of Empires that had declined and fallen
right off their perches. Fifty years too late I liberated a row of onions
or they liberated me - it was hard to tell. Anyway, history books record
(or would do if they had been written yet) daring deeds done and fortitude displayed.

Now, at dawn as the air steams with water’s breath, wrapped
…Oh, the soft silk of it! The dredged silt of it! ...in mysterious healing mud
drawn from the wide arc of the Vah, river of melt water
and reed beds, now on dignified promenade across the alluvial plain;
Now, as I said, I ponder (and it is clear I am getting to the point here
despite being somewhat naked and more than a little embarrassed)
that this at least is true – we are generally the heroes of our own tales,
gathering grandeur to cover us, like so many cloudy veils.

© Frances Bathgate, May 2009