Escape To Silence (1944) by Tom
Riley
Steel footed horses spark the granite setts,
Asthmatic coughing from the Lime Street trains.
Aeolus shrieking down the alleyways,
Hit music bouncing from Whitechapel shops.
Gulls join the commercial Cacophony
As a Bartok symphony rapes the ears.
The clanging Trams swim on their robot legs
And motor horns descant the tinnituss.
People shout their nasal covalent bonds.
Rising inflections of Liverpool's streets
Carried away on the strengthening wind,
But softened by the intermittent rain.
Bill and I stand by our two wheeled Argo's,
Among the blackened building's sooty frowns:
Cold and anxious in our pedalling clothes.
For we are setting forth from Liverpool
With many muscle straining miles to go
Before we reach our Nirvana Cymru.
At 'Wagon's Roll!' we breast the Haymarket
And pay our three pence tithes to breach the dark
And noisy underworld beneath the streets,
Leading to subterranean Mersey ford.
Easy we glide the downward metalled slope
To Mersey Tunnel's roaring fumed nadir.
Now we know we have crossed the Rubicon
As youthful thighs battle the tarmacced hill,
Emerging soon to windy Birkenhead.
The din of commerce now one octave down.
We set our wheels to the New Chester Road
And Port Sunlight's, warm philanthropic charm.
Wind at our backs soon brings the Welsh cross-roads
And Bill sets the pace for crossing the Dee.
We enter Red Dragon land at Shotton
And face the gale's cold wet North-westerly.
Along the river road we pump our thighs
For flint, and Holywell, and Connah's Quay.
Truck load by truck laod always heading south,
The khaki lorries pass in noisy train.
Heading for June beachheads with obscene jest,
The cannon-fodder cargoes sing their way
To sharp mutilation or sudden death,
Or glory, with a tale to tell again.
At 'Point of Ayr' with thanks we face the east,
The easing gale now singing in our ear,
And head for towns of youthful holiday;
Prestatyn, Rhyl and Abergele sands.
Remembered well from childhood camping days
Of candy floss, and hang-dog donkey rides.
Sadly the once-bright beach-huts bang their doors,
Admonishing the strangers on the shore.
Deadly tank trap and rusty barbed wire,
Welcome for the importunate stranger
That may arrive in nineteen forty four.
We cheer each other for the rain has ceased.
Pushing our bikes up Colwyn Bay sea front,
A watery sun warms our tired legs.
We two alone now contemplate the sight,
Of silvered corrugations of the sea
Charging remorseless to their crashing end
On rocky footings of the Promenade.
Grateful free-wheel ride down into Conwy;
The north-west gale now a soft pleasant breeze.
We cross Telford's bridge, to the waiting arms
Of Conwy castle's sleeping Norman tow'rs,
Then point we our weary wheels to the south:
To the country of Owain Glyndwr
This the land of the Mabinogion.
The war shrieks and clash of sword on shield
Stilled now by the green cloak of dense forest.
Slow quiet Conwy river holds the field.
Grimly we set our pedals to the wheels,
We have the last ten weary miles to go.
Slowly we follow the quiet river;
Shadows gather in the late Spring twilight.
Tyn-y-groes, Tal-y-Bont and Dolgarrog
Pass in the hush of the gathering gloom.
After one hundred and ten weary miles,
The welcoming lights of Trefriw appear.
Bright lights; and Bill's kind friends bid us welcome,
Ask after our health, make pots of hot tea,
Set us to feast on fine Welsh country fare.
Later we chat and catch up with the news;
Then, as the warm kitchen fire flickers low,
We force our tired limbs to climb to our room.
Now in the warmth of my strange little bed
I yield to the dark palpable silence
And drift away and drift and drift........
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Author:
Tom Riley |
© Tom Riley, We have made no spelling or punctuation
changes
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