Warming
up mind and fingers
For
another expedition
Into
the dark woods
In
search of Wolf
Makes
lists of necessaries:
Chocolate,
notebook and pens
(Pens
plural, there’s always one that gets away
and
leaves one’s inspiration as a fading memory,
there’s
always one that gets away)
Map
and compass
Fresh
tea flasked
And
most of all
Some
clear time
I
Started with a gentle stroll
Across
some known ground:
The
day so far,
Turning
scrutiny in on itself
To
recollect what I might have missed
Passing
through at some speed.
No
clear time today
All
is fogged and cloaked,
A
drab blanket wraps us all,
Not
a spur for adventure,
But
an enticement
To
good books
Good
coffee ( a recurring theme)
And
chestnutted teacake roasting fires,
While
low clouds hide the tops,
Stinchcombe
hill, Uley Bury,
They
vanish into their own wood’s mystery,
And
all becomes possible again.
Will
Hetty Pegler’s Tump
Spew
forth her shades today ?
As
ancient history,
Seeing
the coast is clear of mortal walkers
Stretches
old bones
And
has a gentle moan and rattle.
Those
of us who love the place
Feel
a shiver of disgrace
As
knowing what we missed today
We
stay inside, forget to play.
I
feel a witchwind was the cause,
must
have blown all night
Then
stopped, leaving us wrapped
In
our own mysteries,
Closer
to us now
Than
in days of sunlight and clear skies
This
is a day for ghost stories at noon
For
visiting old curiousity shops
For
sitting, owl still, in one’s loft
And
bidding welcome to misty travellers
Who
were blown here
Perhaps
a century ago
And
have need of conversation,
And
the warmth from living bones.
Old
brick and timbered farmhouse ?
Beyond
Dave Bick’s chicken farm,
Up
the lane ?
Not
all can see it I’ve been told
But
now I see it from the road
and
yellow candlelight spills from windows
Even
in today’s mid day
Especially
on this misty day:
Earnest,
in the parlour,
Writes
seriously of polar bears and skull dimensions.
Ardent
skulks and contemplates a verse
Or
perhaps a lady he once knew,
Irritating
the new help
By
his lack of improper attention.
I
was told, she said, I was told he would
But
he doesn’t, preoccupied
Alacrity,
dutch cloaked against the fog
And
sabotted against the ubiquitous mud,
Scurries
up the slope behind the farm
On
some mission,
Only
known to herself
Hidden
even from me,
Involving
eggs and butter
And
also perhaps a letter
To
be posted out of sheer goodwill
And
youthful brio
Addressed
to
The
Queen,
The
Frozen wastes
Far
far away
From
Alacrity Shackleton, Miss, aged 9
Tell
me about the trees and bears
Tell
me about about the ice
Tell
me of the your palace feasts
What
is bad and what is nice
Tell
me of your caribou,
Tell
me all O please please do,
Tell
me about the seals and whales
And
what’s a fluke and what’s a tail
Tell
me what its like to rule
And
tell me all your good and bad
What
icy fishes swim in your pools
And
tell me why my brother’s sad ?
Dark
woods approached
And
an imagining achieves
Written
proof of her existence..
I
mark the farmhouse on the map for
future reference,
And
, caught up again
In
self referential reverie,
Bump
into, at lane’s end
and
nearly send flying
The
hurrying and scurrying
Alacrity
Shackleton.
Picks
her up ,apologises
And
hearing her tale,
Solemnly
agree
To
post her letter in town.
Thus
contracted by a child’s innocence,
She
disappears back into her foggy keep
And
I, bemused,
Hold
in my hand
A
concrete letter
From
a dream’s bit player.
You
now have read it too.
Unconscionable
voyeurs ,we
To
spy on a child’s curiousity
Mist
still here
And
the leaves fall
Thoughts
wind back, and let me say
This
is how Albion is today
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