The Spanish Poems of John Clare

The Long Silence
    (After The Spanish Civil War)

This was written ten years after My Spanish Friend. When I first wandered around Spain no-one would speak about the civil war. They still wont. When I tried to get this published in Spain I was visited by the police.


     I walk thru fields
         where low stone walls hide in the grass
         ashamed to raise their rubble
         ashamed to tell their story
     A cold wind blows from Madrid
        over the lonely walls
        to blow away the sound of voices
        to blow away the memories

          * * * * *

At dawn
the sunlight glares on the village walls
but does anyone rise to greet it?
   It falls straight through where once were halls
   filled with the chatter of children
   but wakes no-one

At noon
the sun beats down on the tops of trees
as you sit beneath in the cool and dream
   It beats on the walls amongst the weeds
   where no-one sweats to earn their meat
   for there is no-one

At night
there's the noise of the chattering box
as it scrambles your brain and subdues the soul
   Where walls are down and doors have no locks
   there is silence to accompany the evening paseo
   for there is no-one to walk

          Little ghost
          on whose back do you ride
          with your cold white bones?

          Oh shadows
          haunting the corner of a field
          who do you belong to?

          Come into the light
          so we can see the scars on your back
          turn to look at us
          so we may see the holes in your head

          Let the fierce wind
          blow thru your bones
          and carry your words
          to those with the hoods of their coats turned up

   Brave little bull
   your field has no fence
   but there is no road
   to your moment of destiny

   No-one will watch
   as you wander alone
   No-one will know
   where your epiphany glows

   Brave little bull
   you will shrivel and starve
   as the wind blows you down
   and into the dust

       Bull so black
       bones so white
       what has become
       of your glorious might?

       Bundle of bones
       with nothing to say
       But the cold wind comes
       and will blow you away

       If somebody soon
       doesn't start telling the day
       those with the words
       will have all blown away

   Hey little rider
   on your black horse
   ride back to your village
   where once you were born
   sit by the stove
   and tell us some tales
   and if they are grim
   we wont flinch in the hail

          * * * * *

       The moon
       is a dagger in the sky
       that shines a curse

       The moon
       is an eagle's talon
       shining on a frightened mouse

       The moon
       will escape to the west
       along a shining road

          I wish the moon would whisk
          me far away

   The moon is buried in the mountains
   and it is dark

       no-one can see me
       as I try to hide
       from the wide sky

       no-one can hear me
       as the wind screams
       abuse across the fields

       no-one will know
       how much I wash away
       in the river bed

          I wish the dark would come
          and protect me

   No-one buries the wind
   and it bites
   as it stalks the fields in green
   coat and metal hat

       The wind
       roars like a motorbike
       down the lonely highways

       The wind
       tears at my clothes
       and leaves me naked

       The wind
       who never sleeps
       blows fear into the dusty corners

          I wish the wind would blow
          the fear away

       The rain
       drills into the hard dry earth
       but nothing grows

       The rain
       falls like a hail of stones
       onto the bent backs

       The rain
       comes to mingle with the tears
       and wash the streets with blood

          I wish the rain would wash
          the tears away

   As I back away to hide
   someone creeps up behind

   As I walk into the shadows
   I stumble on a knife

   As I wash away my sins
   I rub myself away.

          * * * * *

The wind has blown a long cold silence
    across the back of Spain
The guns have long since choked the sounds
    of simple folk to silence
The red flare from the barrel of a gun
    ignites the red blood that tumbles from the fallen souls

       Who now can hear their voices
       as each one cries a simple story

Once the blood was hot
    before the cold wind chilled it
Once the bones were clothed
    before the cold earth leached them white
Once there was a family
    that rose to great the dawn
Now a tourist idly kicks a tumbled wall
    and only hears the wind

    Maybe some day
    a curious Spanish tourist
    will peer around a crumpled doorway
    into an empty room
    to see if
    scribbled somewhere on a wall
    is a message from the past
    a tiny cry for recognition
    of a lonely pain.

    Maybe some day
    someone will dare
    to break the long cold silence

© John Clare: 1986-2013

Written while wandering around Spain in the mid eighties.