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The linen map hung from the wall
The linen was shiny
and cracked in places
The cracks were darkened by grime
It was fastened to the classroom wall
with a wooden batten
on a triangle of knotted cotton
The colours were faded out
so the red of the Empire-
the stain of absolute possession
the mark once made from Kashmir
to the oas-barns of the Kent coast south of us
was underwater coral
Ireland was far away
and farther away
every year
I was nearly an English child.
I could name the English kings.
I could name the famous battles.
I was learning to recognize
God's grace in history
And the waters of the Irish sea
their shallow weave
and cross-grained blue green
has drained away
to the pale gaze
of a doll's china eyes-
a stare without recognition
or memory
We have no oracles
no rocks or olive trees
no sacred path to the temple
The teacher's voice had a London accent.
This was London. 1952.
It was an Ancient History Class.
She put the tip of the wooden pointer on the map
She tapped
over the ridges and dried-out rivers
buried in the sea
and sea-scapes which had once been land
and stopped.
Remember this children.
The Roman Empire was the greatest Empire ever known-
until our time of course
while the Delphic oracle
the exact centre of the earth.
Suddenly I wanted to stand in front of it.
I wanted to trace over
and over the waves of my own country.
to read out the names I was close to forgetting
to ask where exactly was my old house?
Its brass One and Seven
Its flight of granite steps
Its lilac tree whose scent stayed under your fingertips
for days
For days-
she was saying-
even months,
the ancients travelled to the Oracle
They brought sheep and killed them.
They brought questions about tillage and war.
They rarely left with more than an ambiguous answer.