He said ‘Hadestown’, my son,
And I pretended to have heard it wrong:
‘I’ve been there.
Got drunk in the Tavern overlooking the wild reeds
And the deceptive fens,
With their dark hoards, pike
And treacherous mud depths.
Tried to cycle home.
Fell off. Hurt myself.
Had to sleep in a barn.
As though of Lethe I had drunk.
As though of Lethe I had drunk.
It was cold.
I turned my duffel coat round for warmth.
Course,
When I woke up
I thought I was dead.
Black hood, you see’.
He looked at me like I was mad.
‘Haddiscoe.
Where Sebald went.
Not far from the sugar beet plant.
Mud. A rookery at Loddon, by the church
Where I sang as a visiting chorister
And afterwards was fed sandwiches and cake
By old ladies finding boys to tempt and spoil,
Ladies who ran the fetes.’
Aghast, he said, ‘Hades, Dad. Hades’.
‘Wasn’t that bad’, I said.
