Sport 28: Autumn 2002
A cry comes again from the pavilion.
I was that nurse and that civilian,
I was the song in the carillon.
She sat on a tree trunk; no, a boulder.
I was the heart inside the soldier,
that broken arm—that hand, that shoulder.
Night which is moonless, melancholy.
I was the man who was extraordinary.
But who really knows the real Billy Connolly?
The ideal reader for his memoir
was some savage version of his mother.
And there she was walking back from the water
coming at last to take his order.
You stare at the house quietly lit.
You will never inhabit it.
A distant smudge of mist …
but he is thinking of her face.
Would you like to go there?
You can travel in my place.