An Ode To Peter Hammill
Inside the house where you do lie
Is no roof so you see the midnight sky
A brush of air stirs the silence of the room
Moving through walls that suggest a tomb
But the walls are not there as is the roof so
For all are in your imagination and have to go.
The furniture of the room is grand
That is, as if it was there by plan
Chairs, tables, beds and cases for your treasures
Are assembled as you imagine them for your pleasures
But there is no floor in this darkened room to show
Or provide support over the void below.
And the broken mirror that reflects your face
Is put there, not in a distant place
Catching the light of a passing lamp
Reflecting the cold and bitter damp
But with no place on which the mirror to hang
It lies face down just the same.
So you write on paper with pen in hand
Never mind that the words are just traces in the sand
Catching the mood of the midnight hour
As witches, and goblins seek to devour
The kindrid spirit that lives within
The fat filled skull that was, yes, a human brain.
Write on, write on, Peter Hammill
For there mongst us are those who know what skill
Is possessed by this one who writes
Of the inner most passion that fills his nights
Emerging with a dark foreboding tone
That happens when we are home (all alone.)