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Edgware Road stn (Circle line) building.JPG

(Photo of Edgware Road Tube Station by Sunil 060902)

Brassie was reminding me that it had been the tenth

anniversary of The London Bombings.

Be careful if you are going up to London, she cautioned.

It’s okay.  I’m aware of it.  It was all over the news.

I also watched the drama about Jenny Nicholson, the girl

who was killed in the Edgware incident.  I was deeply moved

by the fact that she had been reading the novel ‘The

Magician’s Nephew’ by C S Lewis.  I had to re-visit

the book to remind myself of its depiction of Aslan and

the triumph of Good over Evil.  The fact that her mother-Emily

Watson in the film-was a priest only led pathos, but veracity to the

fact that Evil can affect anyone and one’s religious profession offers no

immunity to being a member of the human race and therefore subject

to the seemingly random events that perplex us all in this sublunary

Vale of Tears.

That’s pretty deep, Candia.  No doubt you dealt with it in your

usual way?

Yes, I wrote a poem, but was unsure as to whether to call it

‘Poem for Jenny’ or ‘The Deplorable Word’.  In the end I settled

for the former as I wanted to give Good the foregrounding…

POEM FOR JENNY

Lion waiting in Namibia.jpg

(Photo by Kevin Pluck: The King)

The Deplorable Word was uttered

some time around nine o’clock that morning.

The girl had just been reading about it-

how witch Jadis ‘owned’ the people of Charn,

though her powers did not work in England.

She must have touched the magic yellow ring,

for suddenly the prequel of her life

ceased and she was translated to a wood

between multiverses. Her watch then stopped.

And, not having the two green rings with her,

she couldn’t return.

She thought she could hear a low, growling sound,

not threatening; quite musical, really:

nothing like the noise of the Underground.

She was looking down at the Tube carriage;

she was looking down now on the carnage.

Someone was using her book to prop up

a stranger’s head.  She was glad they took it.

She had no use for it now, but she knew

she was a protagonist in its plot.

Those pages would never close; her story

would continue, not in allegory,

but as a dark, complicating event,

part of the concatenation before

the revelatory denouement.

Some worlds begin and others end like this:

not with a bang and a whimper of pain,

but with a story that can’t be untold;

part of the greatest narrative ever.

She looked into a pool and was surprised

to see the reflection of a lion

in a tranquil surface, with no shock waves.

The music seemed to emanate from him.

In the beginning was his word

and now she knew he would have the last one.