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No Words, No Monuments, No Inscriptions
Here there are no words, no monuments, no inscriptions,
not even a crude carving of a protestation of affection,
such statements being reserved for lesser trees in public parks
where the knife-carrying classes
are not over-taxed by distance, and mud.
In this quiet corner the moss goes steadily about its business
of covering static casualties with a warm green blanket.
The insects scurry noiselessly retrieving and reassembling
till satisfied with the outcome of their industry.
The autumn leaves cling on to memories of grander days,
blown by winds to settle next to new companions,
yet no less morose over their condition.
The wild garlic pokes through, supplying a confident breath.
In time it will conceal the ceaseless rearrangement of death.
And the differences betwixt last year and the year before:
the great gale when the weak were vanquished and the sturdy tested;
and the upheaval of the planting programme of eighty-three,
and that afternoon the widow came stealthily to make a little hole
for the ashes of her deeply loved and much missed husband,
and the child who tripped and bled and cried,
and the cuckoo which used to come here
but now strangely does not -
none of this is recorded.
For here there are no words, no monuments, no inscriptions.
Lacock Abbey, Wilts.
Nikon D2Xs + Tamron Di II SP AF 17-50mm f/2.8 XR LD Aspherical lens.
not even a crude carving of a protestation of affection,
such statements being reserved for lesser trees in public parks
where the knife-carrying classes
are not over-taxed by distance, and mud.
In this quiet corner the moss goes steadily about its business
of covering static casualties with a warm green blanket.
The insects scurry noiselessly retrieving and reassembling
till satisfied with the outcome of their industry.
The autumn leaves cling on to memories of grander days,
blown by winds to settle next to new companions,
yet no less morose over their condition.
The wild garlic pokes through, supplying a confident breath.
In time it will conceal the ceaseless rearrangement of death.
And the differences betwixt last year and the year before:
the great gale when the weak were vanquished and the sturdy tested;
and the upheaval of the planting programme of eighty-three,
and that afternoon the widow came stealthily to make a little hole
for the ashes of her deeply loved and much missed husband,
and the child who tripped and bled and cried,
and the cuckoo which used to come here
but now strangely does not -
none of this is recorded.
For here there are no words, no monuments, no inscriptions.
Lacock Abbey, Wilts.
Nikon D2Xs + Tamron Di II SP AF 17-50mm f/2.8 XR LD Aspherical lens.
Steve Bucknell, Roadscum, John FitzGerald, Hervé S. have particularly liked this photo
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The Limbo Connection club has replied to Steve Bucknell clubI love "The insects scurry noiselessly retrieving and reassembling
till satisfied with the outcome of their industry."
It reminds me of Gavin Ewart's marvellous poem "The Deceptive Grin of the Gravel Porters"...."they toil like ants in their long procession,/hacking at difficulties that grow and close again,/covering once more the path behind them".
Your poem is full of restless movement and busy-ness, things arranged and rearranged, time passing in a great sweep "the great gale" and time stopped and held onto as if photographed: the widow making "her little hole".
There are beautiful, quiet, devastating lines: "and the cuckoo which used to come here/
but now strangely does not-/none of this is recorded."
Such grace and paradox in the poem making its own monument and inscription. The weights and measures and cadences read so well.The way the metaphors weave together.... It would be a shame if this was never read to an audience .
I spent yesterday with some very fine poets...Cliff Yates, Luke Kennard, Peter Sansom, Ann Sansom and others at the Poetry Business Workshop, but I didn't read or hear anything that moved me as much as this. Bravo!
The Limbo Connection club has replied to Steve Bucknell clubSign-in to write a comment.