The Composition Hut

(Grieg’s Composition Hut at Troldhaugen)

Fairytale: the fierce slope of the roof, the pines,

the lake, so it’s easy to fold up this century,

its quick screens, its cables packed under streets.

Now is this green and blue silence, the hut

at the foot of the hill where Grieg worked.

I can almost see his newly-hatched shoals

of crochets and quavers. So why am I holding back?

The door’s unlocked—once inside wouldn’t my ideas

flow. No, I’d be beguiled by the spears of light

rising from the silkgrey water, by the voice urging

the rowers in that boat and I’d float to yesterday

when I saw a lifetime of waterfalls, mountains clad

with firs all pointing at ever. Lulled, I’d believe

the future safe, let littlefish words evade my fingers …

Months on, the composition hut is still in my head.

It’s a hermitage where I could uncover layers of self

but does self have any meaning on its own?

I have no answer, only know I need the pines,

the lake of serenity, the idea of the hut as a retreat

or a perching place, at least, for my soul

where I can begin to face the discomposure

of composing and, undistracted, follow the thoughts

slippery as eels travelling beneath the surface,

let them lead me to the disruption and pain

beyond the trees. For when I shut off the outer tick

I find myself listening to the quickening beat

of this dear planet as if it were my own heart’s clock.