Doubt in a Bath attic

I’ve made myself a sort of study in the box-room;
Sitting at the window, I can reach bibles on the left
Text-books on the right; from below come the busy sounds
Of family feet and cries.

I sit at the top of a tall thin house
Perched on the hillside, overlooking the dark slope
Sandwiched between other houses,
Whose lives I also hear and share.

I look across the valley, over the sad slow River Avon,
To the far ridge, above the streetlights,
Where points of light among the heavy trees
Mark out my previous home.

There, before I heard the Call, I had lived
In clean light rooms; we breathed the air of wealth,
Sleek cars safe in the garage.

In the luxury of time to think, I thought,
And felt alone.
Slowly I’ve shrugged the old life off,
Crossed the valley, traded in the cars.

And now I stare out into the night
And ask for assurance that my choice
Was more than blind egotism;
And ask for forgiveness from my children
At the mercy of my arbitrary act.

As the darkness grows
I see a flood engulf the city;
The busy water, bulbous with currents,
Reflecting the sky.
So few stars; so little light.


Martin Locock, 1998