Liz Hall artist writer performer

more words


The Science Museum

In grown-up corridors he lifts me high
on his shoulders, till I am as tall as a teacher.

We walk through chocolate dark

archways into huge learning rooms.

I see the wonders of the world
I see as far as my father can see.

He shows me clouds forming in columns
of glass, pillowing white and plentiful,

mists of water that spawn rainbows
so bright they dip in pots of gold.

He is my rough-chinned sky horse,
leading me through tales of mountains growing,

and storms brewing. He shows me
a whiplash of whirlwinds, and

crunching crusts of earth
sliding over slow boiling toffee but,

behind our backs, my father doesn't see
the structure that is taller than us both,

where electricity is fizzing, cranking up
in silver globes, building a charge till static

screams a lightning bolt over our heads
- so sudden my father falters

and I am nearly thrown. It's loud enough
to shock childhood loose,

to uncouple me from trust and I become
the smallest, slightest thing,

sure of nothing. He laughs,
squeezes my hand, lowers me down

into this dazzling
ferocious place.