after John Nash br br Nothing is as it was br in childhood, when we had to learn the names br of objects and colours, br br and yet the eye can navigate a field, br loving the way a random stook of corn br is orphaned br - not by shadows; not by light - br br but softly, like the tinder in a children’s br story-book, the stalled world raised to life br around a spark: that tenderness in presence, br br pale as the flame a sniper waits to catch br across the yards of razor-wire and ditching; br thin as the light that falls from chapel doors, br br so everything, it seems, br is resurrected; br not for a moment, not in the sway of the now, br br but always, br as the evening we can see br is all the others, all of history: br br the man climbing up from the tomb br in a mantle of sulphur, br br the struck match whiting his hands br in a blister of light.