From What Country?

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We are like the children when they fell out of the wardrobe

back into the dust of this universe

where the fly buzzes in the window grate

and the air of the attic is stale

but freshened by a swift wind from the door

and the cold that still clings to our clothes

and we have returned—

but the air from that country is still in our lungs

the smell of pine in our hair

the drink on our lips

the song in our mouths

the roar in our ears

and we cannot shake it—

rather

it stays with us like a scent that moves with us through the old world

and freshens it

so we no longer dance with nymphs under the crisp moonlight

of a Narnian wood

but we run our hands down the railings of wallpapered hallways

heavy with another smell

soured by death

and we push open the door on the old

to sweep in the new

so that they say:

“See, what love”

translated otherwise as:

“From what country

does this breeze blow?”

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“How will you know? Oh, you’ll know all right. Odd things they say—even their look—will let the secret out. Keep your eyes open.”

~ The Professor, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

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