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Wednesday December 31, 1969

Bradford-on-Avon

By Grainne Tobin

    Here is the place:

where the river runs quitely

through the cosy town,

past weaver' cottages,church and library,

pub gardens and swimming baths,

under the bridge

among evening smells of leaves and water,

from the boating steps

they are floating lanterns for hiroshima.

Silently (for my Irish voice

might tell too much)

I drop some money in the bowl,

take a home-made lantern,

join the murmuring pilgrims

at the water's edge.

Without speech, I am invisible, and listen.

The cheerful commonplaces

of their conversation

are respectful, like small talk around a graveside.

There are no speeches or announcements.

But in the thickening dusk,

cermonially, one by one,

they light their votive candles,

set down thin craft

with paddling fingers

on the calm dark river.

The wind breathes

into the paper sails,

the lanterns glide downstream,

glowing, lit from within

against the darkness,

till the current carries them

softly out of sight.

I light my candle, float my lantern

with the rest,

watching some catch

in whorls of water,

flash and twist to ash,

their flames extinguished

like the countless dead.