Ted Hughes — The Table

I wanted to make you a solid writing-table That would last a lifetime. I bought a broad elm plank two inches thick, The wild bark surfing along one edge of it, Rough-cut for coffin timber. Coffin elm Finds a new life, with its corpse, Drowned in the waters of earth. It gives the dead Protection for a slightly longer voyage Than beech or ash or pine might. With a plane I revealed a perfect landing pad For your inspiration. I did not Know I had made and fitted a door Opening downwards into your Daddy's grave. You bent over it, euphoric With your Nescafe every morning. Like an animal, smelling the wild air. Listening into its own ailment, Then finding the exact herb. It did not take you long To divine in the elm, following your pen, The words that would open it. Incredulous I saw rise throught it, in broad daylight, Your Daddy resurrected, Blue-eyed, that German cuckoo Still calling the hour, Impersonating your whole memory. He limped up through it Into our house. While I slept he snuggled Shivering between us. Turning to touch me You recognized him. 'Wait!' I said. 'Wait! What's this?' My incomprehension Deafened by his language -- a German Outside my wavelengths. I woke wildly Into a deeper sleep. And I sleepwalked Like an actor with his script Blindfold through the looking glass. I embraced Lady Death, your rival, As if the role were written on my eyelids In letters of phosphorus. With your arms locked Round him, in joy, he took you Down through the elm door. He had got what he wanted. I woke up on the empty stage with the props, The paltry painted masks. And the script Ripped up and scattered, its code scrambled, Like the blades and slivers Of a shattered mirror. And now your peanut-crunchers can stare At the ink-stains, the sigils Where you engraved your letters to him Cursing and imploring. No longer a desk. No longer a door. Once more simply a board. The roof of a coffin Detached in the violence From your upward gaze. It bobbed back to the surface -- It washed up, far side of the Atlantic, A curio, Scoured of the sweat I soaked into Finding your father for you and then Leaving you to him.