Nigel Siddall - Artist & Writer
Shadows in the Night
And she died
one night
one cold, melancholic night
drifting early
into a morning
of mist rising
frost forming
on the breath
And she died
gaunt in the towers
pale skeletal form
hardly reflecting
the life gone before
a shell of weary bone
hardly affecting
the crisp white sheets
now her shroud
And she died
the flashing eyes now still
the rage and passion spent
the childlike yearnings
finally futile
in the passing
of her dreams
And she died
and all was quiet
save the breathing
of the stones
save the gentle murmuring
of the wind
in the tall guardian
trees.
Cathedral of Trees
Plumes of ostrich
Feathers, red and orange, yellowing
In the lee of a frowning silver-grey pine
That soar in serried ridge
Of foliage, cascading in every tone
And hue
High into the slowly dwindling afternoon
Like buttresses of stone built church
That watched my youthful games,
Giant dowagers who carpet the sky,
And through each branch
And reaching leaf
Dappled colours catch the eye
As stained-glass window shards
Flicking in and out of the sun
Which slowly begins to set.
Then three tall firs of olive green
Flanked and curtseyed
By puddles of bubbling japanese maple tree
Bristle their moustaches and form a bearskin honour guard
Faces fixed firmly beneath the rim
Solemnly resisting the tug and pull
Of the ever strengthening wind
And we are summoned within
A nave whose breadth is lined
By pillared trunk of mighty beech
And a whispering phalanx of soft and delicately fashioned bamboo cane
That clicks and murmurs
As we, like pilgrim thieves, creep through
This holy place
Where all the words with which we clothe ourselves seem vain
And the breath itself
Is carried upon an ever rising wave
Of cedars, layered green and stretching
Thrusting fingers
Deep into the clouds above.
Twilight images hovering on the edge of dream
Beckon us on
Past muscular columns of medieval apse
And side chapels of quiet and subtle charm
That silent sit in thought filled pools of shadow
And gently soothe the watching eye
With a soft and healing calm.
Past rows of kneeling bush
That fringe this grassy aisle
Past statue of sculpted green and brown
Until ………
A house, huge
and Gothic
supplants it all
and drags us
back
within the walls
of a drab and empty
imitation
a dullened replica
of a creed of slender touch and ancient sound
of a wind-whispered mantra, too old for word,
that lies beyond
this steepling, spiralling world
of man.
Recital
​
White room walls
of studded sound
the music plays, the bird trills
in early evening
sunshine.
Windows light, bright,
frame the pictures
outside, the house’s eyes
wide in the soaring
melody.
And my mind wanders
back, to days
before, this child-woman
grew and I reached out
a hand that now I use
to say farewell.
All grown now and holding
forth, voice of the nightingale
cry, coy and challenging
the eye sharp behind
the smile, the laughter
mocking the watcher to find
the soft soul
inside.
Cadenza, rush, softening
at the touch, she
is paying her due
in the dawning
of her time, a swan
preening the feathery down
before she takes
flight
and is gone.
from The Redemption of the Damned
​
PRELUDE
​
​
The mud stirred.
Imperceptibly.
Secretly, in the depths of its own secrecy.
There was no real cause, no reason for it to wake now, just time.
Yes, it was time.
And, within its dark and foul-smelling folds, its children began to stir too, their
mouths opening wide and belching forth bubbles of ancient decay.
And the bubbles slowly began to ease their way through layer upon layer of
viscous slime, drawn by some primordial memory of the world they had once
inhabited.
Before.
Before even the story began.
from THE INTERNAL EXILE
The next few hours were a whirl of activity. Driving into the village, collecting the battered three wheeled lorry that someone there, presumably another member of the AK, was lending them, then driving across towards Krakow, their bodies being thrown this way and that in bone-breaking lurches as the ruts in the road and the lack of suspension in the lorry combined to evil effect.
Then, having lost their way on more than occasion, they arrived.
The sight that greeted them was almost identical to the one that Andrew had glimpsed another day in what suddenly felt like another life. The same barbed wire fence, the same wooden guard turrets, the same lines of wooden huts.
The difference was that now they could see the inmates. Little huddles of humanity spread like froth on the top of dirty, contaminated water. The sense of desolation was palpable. It was in the slowness of the movement, or in the lack of movement at all. It was in the blankness in the eyes, the sallowness of the skin. It was in the smell of disease and death.
The guards were now much more visible too. At the gates, on the towers, walking in smaller clusters of two or three, guns held across their chest. There was a certainty about them, an unrepentant arrogance that you could almost taste on the breeze. They were like predators on the plains, wandering lazily through the crowds of wildebeest, their appetites for the moment sated.
As they drew up at the gate, Andrew asked himself yet again what on earth he was doing there. And as the guards pointed their rifles at their heads, any possible answer disappeared into the mist of terror.
They got out and were at once surrounded and, with their hands placed firmly behind their heads, thoroughly searched. There was no civility in the touch, no manners, just pure, undiluted menace. Their job done, the guards then backed away a pace or two, rifles still aimed at what were quite clearly their targets.
They stood there, listening to the buzzing of the flies, the odd groans that drifted across from the open area beyond the gates, sweltering in the early summer heat and the tension. Andrew stared fixedly at the ground, and the jack-booted feet. It was hard to believe that this was happening.
Eventually, an officer arrived and took charge. He snapped out commands at the guards and demanded what ‘these filthy Poles’ were doing here. Ralph coughed nervously and, with eyes well averted, quickly tried to explain. The officer listened, his face lined with boredom and disdain.
‘OK, OK,’ he said, after a moment or two, ‘enough. You are here to collect some…….. vermin, yes? Some peasants from around here.’
Ralph nodded in acknowledgement.
The officer turned and spoke quickly to the awaiting guards. Andrew could understand some of the German, something about prisoners, and Poles, but little else, the guttural tone and the soldiers’ slang defeating him. The gist was clear, though, and they were then summoned through the gates and into the heart of the camp.
The stench inside almost overwhelmed them. As indeed did the sight of the emaciated bodies that hovered like ghosts in the shadows.
Andrew tried hard to blank it out. But failed.