The Destiny of Mr Clown
(I)
The moist pale sunlight is breathing
Through the streets
And washes the night from the sleeping houses.
The clouds, dark kites, fly sadly silent
Through the pearly paper sky;
Their shadow winds below
Like shivering echoes blow
The dawn through the leaves.
And now a rustling, rumbling, trembling, barking issues
From each tomb dark window
Through the watery waiting streets.
Arising from his cream white bed
Jim Clown peers at the morning
Through waking eyes
And shakes his dozing head.
In the memory of sleep his mind rises
To meet the day-light white of the plaster walls,
The damp window within the mirror
And the rustling town.
He rises slowly, snowflake dreams melting
On the dark expanse of night,
Their kaleidoscope images confused in flight
Dance like coloured rain
Within the galleries of his mind
And wash the night’s dark traces
From his morning brain.
He dresses quickly on the chill worn carpet of the room;
And now the breakfast tones of the toasted bacon gong
Go gong gong gonging through the house
And all the lodgers sniff the air.
The white tiled bathrooms fill with sounds
Of hissing water fountains as in a church,
And one by one with gleaming soap scoured faces
They quietly down the ancient stairs
Like choirboys to a service.
(II)
The limp and little figure of Mr Clown
In cardboard cutting collar, baggy suit
And holiday mood of two weeks once a year,
Goes to his destiny this Tuesday morning
To feed the plush park ducks
Tramp around the tumbling town
And shiver in the bitter rain.
With speed he leaves his idle sullen room
And in the hall
Meets his rosy rotund roly-poly land lady Mrs Smith
(who thinks ‘Mr Clown how you frown
Like my buried burden six feet down
Wrapped in linen, dear delicious and late Mr. Smith.
Bless his dear dear soul!)
‘Good morning ducky dear’ she says.
He quacks a reply and tries to smile
She grins like the moon and sighs
As he leaves the house in haste.
Outside, the streets, a jungle of activity.
The minstrels of the morning sing
In the ice toothed air.
(III)
The black lace Madonna’s of the park
Tree limbed and silent stand
In empty circles. The cold winds
Caressing their dark beaded hands
And ink lined beauty with pleasure.
Mr Clown sleep walks with the lonely day
On sodden leaves, down the cool tunnels of trees
From the shivering lake where the ducks live
And the meandering paths………
To the tumbling town
Where the bustle of the streets winds
Through the grey stone houses.
The coffee shops smoke and chatter and stare.
The butchers swing the cold steel axes
And cleave the red raw dripping meat.
The cloth-wrapped lines of people weave
Formless past the open doors of the stores
That breathe hot air spiced with scent and leather.
Hi white limp face moves past many windows.
The rolling sheets of the sailor linen emporiums
The thrusting black suits idols of the tinker tailor shops
Stare at his silken saddened face
Moving to that one gigantic moment
Through the passing streets.
Past the candy rock tuck shop
Where an old lady squints above glass jars
And sinks back into the treacle shade.
Past the squealing straw stinking pet shop
Where the monkeys, mice, cats, parrots and rats
Sing for their dirty milk sops and bug infected water.
(IV)
From the noise of the town Mr Clown reaches the sandy bay.
The sea moves in racing rhythms
Across the beach
Washing seaweed, sandcastles and giggling children’s feet.
He sits alone on steeple rock
Resting the profile of his face and gaunt shoulders
On the snow white tower of the lighthouse.
Sleeping in the day
Like a moon temple
It’s tower sweeping across the sky
And defining the blue horizon.
He sits not thinking, not hoping,
Not dreaming or feeling
Nodding to the movements of the waves.
Mr Clown sits, the sea washing the sound of the streets
From his motionless brain
And leaving only the ripples in the sand
And a dying fish, gasping for air,
In the glare of the day.
(V)
The day moved into evening rain
The last sad tears at the end of time.
Mr Clown did not return
Never was he seen again.
The sea gulls circled round and round
The clouds rushed across the silent sky
As he walked slow across the beach
Into the dark engulfing sea
Into the arms of lasting peace
The temple of the mystery.
(1967)
