A Short Film
It was not meant to hurt.
It had been made for happy remembering
By people who were still to young
To have learned about memory.
Now it is to dangerous weapon, a time-bomb,
Which is a kind of body-bomb, long-term too.
Only film, a few frames of you skipping and still skipping.
Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge,
This thing has a fine fuse, less a fuse
Than a wavelength attuned, an electronic detonator
To what lies in your grave inside us.
And how that explosion would hurt
Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat
Over the skin-surface, a bracing of nerves
For something that already happened.
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
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