Delta40
11-03-2011, 05:33 PM
Winding streets lead me uphill to the green
where the stocks and whipping post
remind all who pass through how justice was once best served.
A wrought iron sign hung with oak leaves
tempts this weary traveller into the local inn.
Today, my worn feet have passed old battlements,
Roman relics and antiquated timbered homes.
I’ve climbed over the ruins of many a stone grey wall.
The Innkeeper gives me a hearty welcome
as if I have always been known to him.
Quaff your thirst here with the finest mead or ale!
This village was once the fairest in the county he says.
His wife offers to serve my victuals for a price.
Pheasant fit for a king with carrots and potatoes
but one groat will only afford me a small plate
of salted meat and radish before I must take my leave.
Head north my good friend and may God keep you safe.
I pass the crumbling remains of an Elizabethan hall.
The broken pilasters reflect her royal contempt.
How the gardens must once have flourished.
Now choked by wild foliage, I imagine the sweet scent
of rose beds dazzling during those lost summers.
Even the minstrel gallery has collapsed,
perhaps under the burdensome weight of time itself.
My fingers trace the friezes of warriors on winged horses.
Ice cold to the touch, I know the chill of inner doom
all too well and seek sanctuary in His House.
In the eerie darkness, a medieval church appears before me.
Here, Norman ghosts linger beneath the mighty arches,
their secrets howling through the trees reminding me
that for some, the past will never be done with.
I stoke the flames from leaves and wood, warming my hands.
A moss covered statue of a child blowing a vamping horn
glows in the firelight, his pursed lips waiting patiently
for my meagre fire to flicker and die out.
Tis then I hear the music of my soul telling me it is time.
Time to end this pilgrimage, close my eyes, keep still
as I am snatched back from the ruins of today.
where the stocks and whipping post
remind all who pass through how justice was once best served.
A wrought iron sign hung with oak leaves
tempts this weary traveller into the local inn.
Today, my worn feet have passed old battlements,
Roman relics and antiquated timbered homes.
I’ve climbed over the ruins of many a stone grey wall.
The Innkeeper gives me a hearty welcome
as if I have always been known to him.
Quaff your thirst here with the finest mead or ale!
This village was once the fairest in the county he says.
His wife offers to serve my victuals for a price.
Pheasant fit for a king with carrots and potatoes
but one groat will only afford me a small plate
of salted meat and radish before I must take my leave.
Head north my good friend and may God keep you safe.
I pass the crumbling remains of an Elizabethan hall.
The broken pilasters reflect her royal contempt.
How the gardens must once have flourished.
Now choked by wild foliage, I imagine the sweet scent
of rose beds dazzling during those lost summers.
Even the minstrel gallery has collapsed,
perhaps under the burdensome weight of time itself.
My fingers trace the friezes of warriors on winged horses.
Ice cold to the touch, I know the chill of inner doom
all too well and seek sanctuary in His House.
In the eerie darkness, a medieval church appears before me.
Here, Norman ghosts linger beneath the mighty arches,
their secrets howling through the trees reminding me
that for some, the past will never be done with.
I stoke the flames from leaves and wood, warming my hands.
A moss covered statue of a child blowing a vamping horn
glows in the firelight, his pursed lips waiting patiently
for my meagre fire to flicker and die out.
Tis then I hear the music of my soul telling me it is time.
Time to end this pilgrimage, close my eyes, keep still
as I am snatched back from the ruins of today.