carefree within the plaintive sorrow of that singing voice, and it strikes my ears as might a song from a painting.
The drivera€™s song
crossing Suzukaa€™s far passa€”
spring rain fal ing.6
Having jotted these words diagonal y on the page, I realize it is not in fact my own poem.7
a€?Someone else has come,a€? remarks the old woman, half to herself.
Since there is only one path across the mountains, al who come and go must pass her teahouse. Each of those five or six horses Ia€™ve met would have come down the path, and climbed back up it again, to these same murmured words. Here in this tiny settlement, strewn blossom-deep wherever feet might tread, down the years she has counted the bel s, through the changeless springs along the hushed and lonely road, til now her hair is white with the years of counting. Turning over a page, I write
The drivera€™s songa€”
white hair untouched by color
spring draws to its end.
But the poem doesna€™t manage to express al Ia€™m feeling; it wil need some further thought. Staring at the tip of my pencil, I am pondering how I might combine the phrase a€?white haira€ with a€?age-old melodya€ and the theme words a€?the drivera€™s song,a€ add a season word for spring, and put it al into a haikua€™s seventeen syl ables, when a loud voice cries a€?Hel o there!a€ and in front of the shop stands the packhorse driver himself.
a€?Wel , wel , so ita€™s you, Gen. Youa€™re off down to town again, eh?a€?
a€?If you have anything you want from there, just let me know and Ia€™l bring it up for you.a€?
a€?Wel then, if youa€™re passing through the Kaji-cho area, could you bring me a Reigan Temple talisman for my daughter?a€?
a€?Right, Ia€™l get one for you. Just one? Your Akia€™s made a fine marriage. Ita€™s a happy thing. Isna €™t that so?a€?
a€?Praise be, she wants for nothing in daily life. I suppose thata€™s a happy thing, yes.a€?
a€?Of course it is! Just compare her with the Nakoi girl.a€?
a€?Yes, poor thing. And so good-looking too. Is she any better these days?a€?
a€?Nah, just the same as ever.a€?
a€?What a shame!a€? The old woman heaves a sigh.
a€?A shame it is,a€? Gen agrees, stroking his horsea€™s nose.
The rain that has streamed out of that distant sky is stil held pooled in every leaf and blossom of the luxuriantly branching cherry tree nearby, and a passing gust of wind chooses this moment to catch the tree off guard, so that it finds itself toppling the heavy drops down from their precarious home aloft, with a sudden shower of sound. Startled, the horse tosses its long mane up and down.
a€?Whoa there!a€? scolds Gen, his voice combining with the clanging of the horsea€™s bel to break through my meditations.
a€?You know, Gen,a€ the old woman goes on, a€?I can stil see before my eyes the sight of her when she went off as a bride. Sitting there on the horse, in that lovely long-sleeved wedding kimono with the patterned hem, and her hair up in the
a€?Yes, she didna€™t go down by boat, did she. We used the horse. She stopped off here on her way through, I remember.a€?
a€?Thata€™s right. The horse stopped under that cherry there, and just then there was a little flurry of fal ing petals. That splendid
I open my sketchbook again. This scene could be a painting, or a poem. I picture in my minda€™s eye the figure of the bride, imagine the scene as if it were before me. Pleased with myself, I jot down
Praise be to the bride
who rides across the mountains
through blossoming spring.
The odd thing is that, although I can clearly picture her clothes and hair, and the horse and the cherry tree, I simply cannot visualize the bridea€™s face. I try out this one and that, until suddenly the face of Ophelia in Mil aisa€™s painting springs unbidden to my mind, fitting itself perfectly under the
a€?Right then, if youa€™l excuse me, Ia€™l be off,a€? says Gen.
a€?Drop in again on your way back through. Ia€™m afraid al that rain wil have made the Seven Bends difficult to get around.a€?
a€?Yes, ita€™s a bit hard going,a€? Gen replies as he moves away. His horse sets off behind him.
a€?Hea€™s from Nakoi, is he?a€?
