Reading The Brazen Head

When I was a nervy boy, I took to reading John Cowper Powys - I loved the titles of his novels - Wolf Solent, A Glastonbury Romance, Owen Glendower, Atlantis - even the man's name suggested dangerous mystery -

I used to visit the small branch library near Palmyra Road - the library was a small one - it looked like a hut in a Prisoner of War Camp - I wondered if Colonel Hogan might be idling in there - I was a great fan of Hogan's Heroes -

But it was within the quiet space of this library, that I fell in love with reading - I can remember, even now, the feel of the covers of the library books, the heady, spicy, smell of the pages -

Outside the library, boys kicked footballs on muddy scraps of grass - pale blue Cortinas drew up outside Smeeds, the off licence - girls in hot pants sighed over Scott Walker -

I picked up the Brazen Head by chance - it had a green, sinewy cover - the librarian applied her stamp - her hair was like a web of dust -

When I read the book, I had no idea what it was really about - but I mouthed the words at the end, over and over - Time was - Time is - And time will -

I realised, for the first time, that the visible world is only a dream -

In Dorchester Museum, I came across this sculpture of the Head - I stared at it for a long time - I wondered what prophecies would emerge from the savage mouth -