The Disappearance Diaries of an Apprentice Hermit

Pilgrim by David Swarbrick,  written in & around Langold House beneath the North Down’s Pilgrim’s Way, in Birling, Kent.For Simon & Beata, from 1977 & After.

TO RA AND REMEMBERING VERITY FORSYTH   

1  PAPER BOAT    slowly  slowly  like a paper boat  turning in the wind  on a glassy pond   slowly  slowly  like a huge ship  spinning in a boundless sea  slowly  slowly  like a slurred boom  on the edge of heaven  slowly  slowly  you are going your way  I cannot reach you.  I modulate my voice  speak twice as loud;  I let you fall asleepand do not interveneI watch you slip,slipslip awayinto the infinite firmness of ageslowlyslowlyyou are goingand I cannot stop you;what will be leftwill be the echo of your voicesayingjust give me a hug sonslowlyslowlyyou are turningslowlyslowlyyou are going away ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. JULY 2022   2HIM do you see him?I do.I see him so well,now,as if cataracts have been removed,or darkness lifted,or Bartimaeus met in town, betrayingthe sight of men like trees, walking.for there he is,down this thoughtand down that,down every thought;lurking inescapably,stale as water that will not drain away,blooming like an unkillable weedon my perfect spotless green-as-life wildflower lawn.yes,there, there he is,the bastard uninvited guest,the foul changelingmorphing, little by littlebit by bloody bitinto the host.at first, he was shockingly rare;a parent here,a distant friend,a wise and gentle witch;a clutch of gorgeous aunts.now he comes like a commuter bus,like a monstrous industrial vacuum cleaner,like a tsunami mutilatingwith its froth of white-brown brine,gathering the broken limbs of far flung homesa vortex,churning, sweeping far inland to claima close friend here,another there,mother-in-law,a mad and lovely herbalist,another aunt.plucked from their stops;and others,always others, waiting in further stops,huddledunder the flimsyrooves of bus sheltersas if they could ever evade this acid rain.how do I tell him to fuck offto fuck off to the furthestbitter boundaries of the universe,to the ends of time,to the black mysterious etherbubbling in unimagined territories,the godless limitless landsno maps depict;how do I tell him to go,to go, and not return;to fuck right offwhen I hear himnow,when I hear himnow,inside of me? ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. MARCH 2023   3RAVEN those most I knowthose noises go;and mad mindsdraw the raven ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023   4OUR TIME no longer do youworry about what next to doyou are submerged by sleeplike the waves of Lyme Baywe almost heara mile away,Hope Cove, Thatcher’s Rock,rolling, one upon anotheryou have lived so long,so bloody longputting one foot before the next.I sit beside you.a terrible rainbeating on the windows,feeding you chocolateswhen you wake;playing you music –the old tunes of the war,of Calcutta,of Bill and Ben,Glenn Miller,the ragged random pathsthrough almost 100 years of life ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023   5PAPA you are so frail now.your body twitches with random movementsfingers, kneeswatching sometimesalive,stubbornly alivehanging on,in case somethingimportant has been forgotten,and needs to be donebefore you go. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023    6GOOD it is not reciprocalthis good, you know -as if it might returnto coat you backlike a bee with pollen ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023  7ALREADY already,yes alreadyI am already saying goodbye.you sleep much more nowhears littleeat less.you cling to your bedlike an iron sparrowclinging to its treealmost,you are not here.almost.tomorrowor if not tomorrow,then someday soonishyou will have gone,died,buggered off;left this planet,left me.and that will be it.no amount of negotiated languagecan put us both backbreathing the same airin the same room.and that, of course,will also bewhen my own oxygenstarts slowlyto run out too. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023  8BUT FOR but for your shoulder’sbriefestbriefest twitchyou could be dead.beyond the half-closed curtainsand the open window,parakeets call from mango trees;crows caw;an unendable burr of grasshopperssummons from smooth green lawns:and here, toothe ordinary thrill of country noiseshum,and echo,and chatter,and splash.at night,foxes bark,owls whoop;andbaa-baa bleat the sheepin their long sad day’s lament.oh yes, daddy,yes:of course you are here and now –here and now,here and now,still as a corpse,deaf as a shell,weak as an infant;in pain, in fear,tired, tearful, fretful, finished, forgetful,utterly forgetful –but here, now.come,let us thinkbeyond -beyond this quiet room,this modest, unaffronting roomwhere, just beyond your windowany country could wait.come, let us thinkbeyond -beyond this kind and cautious building;beyond the kind lanes of Devonand the buildingsrooted in red earth;beyond the ceaseless misty drizzle,the hedgerows high as chimneys<...

The Jungle, the Work of an Unknown Author, edited by David Swarbrick & Max de Silva.  Whether or not the original text of The Jungle included a dedication can, sadly, only be a matter of random speculation given the passage of so many hundreds of years, but for my own part, I would like to dedicate my contribution to the publication, the Preface and Notes to MM. 

Written in a moment between 6.30 and 7.30 am in bed on 5th January 2026.