Danse de Voyage
Written for Rob.
The strange thing about travelling through
was that it meant not staying
meant moving on
The train, pretty place, just like a toy going round a Christmas tree
meant moving on
meant sitting across from somebody else and a suitcase up above you and a window beside you
The earth outside passed
quick and smooth
like the dream of watching yourself grow up
This was only a dream of watching little children grow tall and put on suits
and comb their hair
and want big things because they had big minds
It was natural, but it was watching the dream
as it passed by
like the earth outside through a train window
which was what it meant to be moving on
which was what it meant to be travelling through
The strange thing about spending the weekend
was that it meant not staying
meant going back
The bed and breakfast, cold little place, with flower quilts and wicker chairs
meant going back
meant it wasn't yours and the owners would make breakfast and smile and ask you to sign the guestbook
The wallpaper was blue china
old and remembrance
like the fantasy of watching your play-dreams come true
This was only a fantasy of watching all the things you said you'd do get done
and work out really
and make all of them remember too because nobody could forget
It was beautiful, but it was watching the fantasy
as it lay in your mind
like the wallpaper at the bed and breakfast
which was what it meant to be going back
which was what it meant to be spending the weekend
The strange thing about visiting the place you'd never been
was that it meant it wasn't home
meant it wasn't yours
The fountains and the plazas, wonderful places, with glittering water and shining pillars
meant it wasn't yours
meant you had a brochure and a map and knew you were a tourist at every cathedral you visited
The monuments had bronze plaques
dulled and cold
like the idea of making a perfect world somewhere
This was only an idea of making everyone happy and making them smile
and understand
and touch each other's face to kiss instead of slapping
It was heart-hurting, but it was making the idea
as you read it written down
like the plaques on the monuments
which was what it meant that it wasn't yours
which was what it meant to be visiting for the first time
The strange thing about coming home
was that it meant you didn't need to call anybody first
meant that you weren't going on
The front hall, sweet place, with a rack for boots and a hook for coats and mat to wipe feet
meant that you weren't going on
meant that you unloaded your suitcases on the bed and put souvenirs on mantelpieces
The bedrooms smelled of your clothes
once and familiar
like the wish of going to sleep for a long, long time
This was only a wish of dreaming of the places you'd been
and the wallpaper
and the train with the earth through the windows
It was glad, but it was dreaming the wish
as you had buried your face in it
like the smell of home in the bedrooms
which was what it meant that you weren't going on
which was what it meant to be coming home
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