poem copyright: Margaret Atwood, "Night Poem" - All rights reserved.
There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east,
it is only your father, the thunder
your mother, the rain
He sat up in his bed, back flat against the wall, eyes glued to the tree limbs' shadows that danced across the windowpanes. With his glasses off and sitting askew somewhere across the messy floor, he only saw them dimly; his ears worked perfectly fine, however, so he heard the wind howling, the thunder crashing and rain hitting the lake, the grass, the roof.In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection.
He reached quickly with a Seeker's deftness and picked up his glasses blindly; he put them onto his face and he could see. He saw the rain coming down in sheets, the grass now flat, the atmosphere outside was pitch black and the tree limbs moved like ghosts across the window. He saw something else, too, standing behind him...she was beautiful.
your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
She was standing in the doorway, in her pyjamas, a huge red wool sweater and black flannel pants. Her face, albeit beautiful, was tear-streaked and heartbroken. His face fell when he saw her pained expression; the sight of her looking so dreadful left a feeling of misery in the depths of his heart.
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whispers.
He gave her a look. She sat down timidly on the edge of the bed. It squeaked and she managed a weak smile, quickly put out though, by fear.
"What's wrong?"
"I was having a horrible dream -- and the storm woke me up. It was so chilling..." she trailed off. She looked young and vunerable.
You rock in the rain's arms,
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother,
with our cold hands and dead flashlight
He held out his masculine, solid arms and she fell into them, dropping the flashing - with dead batteries - with an almost silent thud on the bedspread. Patting her head, he shushed her quiet sobs and told her it would be alright; she believed him. The Boy Who Lived could make anything better..
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.
"Oh, Ginny."