What starts out as a memory ends up as a metaphor which is how it so often goes when writing. While the conscious mind is busy doing one thing, the subconscious slips in sideways with something else that needs to be revealed, understood and felt. This is cathartic medicine and one of the reasons I write. Here's an example that ends up distilled into a youthful yearning to find my place in the sun.
How Much Further to Go?
We’re piled in the car
headed down the road
on our summer holiday
a family of five
tent
sleeping bags
pots and pans
food and clothes
God, I’d hate to think
how much does this car weigh?
I’ve got my favourite doll
and a suitcase for her clothes
I’ve got my own pillow
it’s my turn by the window
the air coming through is sweeter
than wild rose
when I say
how much further to go, Daddy?
hey, how much further to go?
After hours of big brother teasing
pulling at my hair
we finally climb the last hill
‘round the last bend
and at last
the lake’s down below us
glistening there
while the radio sings
sunshine
lollipops and rainbows
everything that’s wonderful
is sure to come my way
I firmly believe that to be true
and so I say
hey Daddy, how much further to go?
how much further to go?
We pull into Todd’s Tent Ground
the tent’s are tightly jammed packed
but we find one small spot
for our golden canvas
Daddy quickly pulls out the slack
on the guidelines
I will invariably trip over
Daddy gets annoyed
says why don’t you all just go
jump in the lake
so we do
but first like puppies we roll
and tumble on down
through the clover
Our days are spent
swimming
splashing
laughing
jumping from the raft
picking cherries
eating pigs in a blanket
growing up far too fast
every summer, one less to go
so why it is I always wanna know
how much further to go?
hey daddy, how much further to go?
Can you take us back to Peachland, Daddy?
hey, let’s go back to Summerland
I want to see our young faces
in the lantern light
feel the warmth
of my mom’s hand
cawing crow
wake me in the morning
let this be the day
we come across Ogopogo
breathing fire
and loudly roaring
Ah
but the garden’s not open to everyone
says Daddy
nor visits with the king
I’m going to have to walk
the road of ashes
if I want to hear bells
across the ocean
ring
tend the rose child
ain't no thistle's gonna grow
and the golden rule
is all the religion
we think any of you children
needs to know
But remember
she who expecteth nothing
shall not be disappointed
oh but Daddy
it’s been years since I've seen a shooting star
and felt anointed
I’m so tired of living
underground
I want to be a part of the incantations
to summer
to feel that sacred sound surround me
Daddy
how much further to go?
hey Daddy, hey Daddy
hey Daddy, how much further to go?
Are we there yet, Daddy?
Are we there yet?
hey Daddy?
hey Daddy, how much further to go?
© Anne Beverly Brown
September 1991
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