Illustrated with photos by Josephine Sacabo
There was something in him unfulfilled,
Something bigger than the shadow that he cast,
Like a photo of something not quite in the frame,
A language that you've heard but never learned,
Understood the music without knowing what it means.
All through his childhood there was a picture
His mother called the Ever-Open Door.
It was small - a faded watercolour of
A timber porch with a big stone arch,
Opening onto a path that curved away
Round rockery, shrubs, dry stone wall
Into an unseen landscape where
The distant sea was somehow near
And someone was always waiting.
An unmapped territory already in his mind,
Flown over, a mile high, many times at night,
Unknown, unrecovered, but familiar.
Peter Jukes 2000