On the Cathedral Pines Day-Trip
Written for Memise.
There in the tall pines, towering up to the sky--and I
Wondered why they called it 'Cathedral'
Because the Cathedral was
c o l d
And dark and dusty and full of filtered light
Muted red and green and blue with
Stained-glass
With an old smell of oldness, of
Folded-up-put-away-in-a-boxness
Behind-the-old-quiltsness
And this was not a Cathedral at all, for it was
Impossible to smell
Anything at all
It was a picture, looking up, and there was music playing
Like the soundtrack of an animated film
The sun-lined, half-gold needles shaking gently
And
The pale sky like a solid ceiling
Soft and lovely and forever
You could hear it
So this was not a Cathedral at all--
Well, there in the tall pines, towering to the sky--and I
Wondered why they put it in a little book
Under a little heading
And called it a little thing:
'Day-trip'
Because a day-trip is
s u m m e r
And white beaches and white silk skirts and pastel shawls
And white silk suits for gentlemen
With tall, calm grasses waving on dunes, and a simple blue sea
Making white-foamed waves
And the smell of salt-water taffy, packed in little cardboard boxes
With wax wrappings and funny faded pictures on the boxes
And lighthouses. And this
was not a day-trip at all, for it was
Green and brown and gold
And far from the
Sea
It was a moment,
Like the time before you open your eyes when you wake up from a dream
Just before you realise the bed is
Too hot or
Too cold
And it's early but the alarm's ringing
There was a frozen second of it, when the wind blew a little stronger and the sun
Shone a little hotter
And the soundtrack ended and a bird sang
But you wanted it to keep playing
So it was not a day-trip--
So, there in the tall pines, towering to the sky--and I
Wondered why we stopped there just before we went home
Because it was meant to be looked at
And we were meant to go back to the cabin
And sit in the wicker-wood chairs
Or out front, by the lake, and
Think about it
Because going home is
f o r g e t t i n g
Or getting nostalgic and remembering things differently
It's driving the motorcar back where you came from
With the last newspapers of 'vacation'
In the front seat
With someone's radio
Playing old songs that make you feel hot and restless
Because you know you're leaving
With blanket tents in the backseat to keep off the sun, and too many people crowded in
And shouting and squealing and fighting
With last-minute ices to remember the place by
This was
Not meant to go home with, for it
Was wild magic
With the soundtrack hushing and the wind making whirrr in the trees
And the sky darking as a cloud
Went over the sun
And you were meant to go back to the cabin
To stand on the dock looking over the lake and think
Of the wild magic
How different it was, how the photograph will stay forever and get
Faded and brown
How the soundtrack ended quietly at the end, with the smoke-blue sky
How
It grew quiet, in a way, and yet stayed loud
With the whistling of the bird and the whirrr-shhhhing of the branches
So it was not meant to go home with--
But we did.
And there in the tall pines, towering to the sky--well,
I wondered why
A hundred thousand times, I wondered why, and
Why 'Cathedral'
Why 'day-trip'
Why go home?
But I
Never
Found
O u t
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