A Haunting

Tan Mackay

The house – his house – half-circled by dark trees,
stood white; its outer brightness merely paint on stone,
the ‘whited sepulchre’ concealed.

Tree-curtain, seeming black, though green,
reflected, stark, in shadowed windows, once glassless,
placed to watch for movement on the rearward hill.
They’d served in sighting the red deer, too,
that skirted the rounded crest, and, fleeting, dipped from view
among the rocks that littered the farther slope.
The trees had blocked the sun and leached the lifeblood
from the builder’s stones,
leaving them barren, chill,
as they did me.

The pillaged provender had stimulated growth,
and, seeking light, cone-laden pines had towered
to heights that hindered gentle sea-born drifts of air,
yet churned each ocean storm in whipping whorls
to flagellate the house’s streaming flanks
and lash the cringing turrets about the roof.

They’ve always said the house was haunted.
I believed it then. As a child, I knew. Still do.
Three Spirits, so the story goes;
unquiet but silent trinity, brooked no
unannounced incursions; their displeasure
manifest in small disasters – each
a portent of something greater, we were told.

Arriving, one of us would tug the iron bell-pull by the door,
and wait, tremulous, while centuries of iron and timber
stood bonded to bar all entry. Wordless, I’d pray
the door should never open. But it did.
Whoever opened from within would step outside,
in all weathers, turn and shut it fast,
then knock three times, in warning, stand and wait,
before we were hurried in – and I despaired.
Shadowed stairs, dim rooms, dark hearts,
in violation of the light, a breeding-ground
for terrors a child could not withstand – a child that
sought refuge in arms that would afford none.

There’s a story there for telling too,
though I have never told it. Perhaps I never shall.
I promised, you see; and child in adult
still stays bound, until dark chambers of memory
are opened up and aired. Some promises
become too onerous to bear, never merit their honouring
nor justify the pain they have imposed.

I thought myself powerless,
but I know better now.
It took me years to see
my power lay quiescent, never free
until I set aside my stifling mask
and answered questions I had feared to ask.

The shell cracked open, spilling not fiends nor furies.
No rending monsters leapt to claw my heart.
The man is dead, and if I’d ever wanted
occasion for revenge, it’s past and gone.
Late, I came to recognise the power I had – forgiveness.
That, like mercy, can redeem and heal,
salve knotted scars, anoint the wounded world,
and freely gift its blessings to us all – if we are willing.

I need no advocate, no judge nor jury to make the verdict clear.
The power, all along, had been within me. I should have known,
if merely in my adamantine will to hold at bay
the hate I could not live by. Bitterness corrodes.
Its acid eats away the tender lining of our love,
leaving us ulcerous, compassionless and parched,
thirsting, seeking, dowsing in quest of a quenching spring.

“That house is haunted”; they say it still, over their evening beers.
I don’t intend to visit it again. I haven’t done for years.
I’ve come to terms with ghosts; my peace is made, as far as it can be.
They couldn’t know (why should they care?) that the house is still haunting me.

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Rivers of Africa

Tan Mackay

Rivers of Africa, sure witnesses to what we are – and what we might have been;
Your charnel channels churn the life-drained residues of nature and of tribal strife,
Yet serve as arteries that reinvest the land with rich, recycled nutrients for life.
Judging nothing, neutral in intent, observing more than surfaces have seen,
Your probing tests the sun-fired baking of your banks, and turns to green
The tawny lion-flanks of sandy mounds, foliage dried hard, and sharp as any knife.
You shaped the wadies, carved the crags, laid bare the sediments with fossils rife
In studded layers; and let your eddies sculpt the rock for many a shielding screen.
Flow falters in their shade, adjusts its pace, to linger, sheltered from the heat.
Day’s blatant warmth relinquishes its hold, as night prowls close and desert cools.
Nocturnal hunters groom and stretch, in readiness to stalk for meat,
While others dip their heads and drink, where you have furnished them with pools.
But where your waters, joining, swell to flood, your force, your power is complete.
No challengers then would risk your wrath, but feckless venturers and fools.