Wardlow
Once
Our lives were
built like these limestone walls
Stone by
stone
Hewn from
the earth.
Fiddlers in “The
Bull’s Head”
Bowed for lead
man and shepherd alike
Jigs reeling
across
Our sweet
green pastures
Where lambs grew fat
And other
places
Seemed so
Faraway.
But now
Our lives
are like the vehicles on the turnpike road
Flashing by
To satnav
destinations.
Strangers in
barn conversions
Chase magazine
dreams and eat
Fajita ready
meals.
Even “The
Bull” has gone -
Like the
school -
And what we
had
Seems so very
Faraway.
This seems just like my "Florabelle Oxley (1918 - 2007)" -- that is, a monologue -- except that you started each line with a capital letter.
ReplyDeleteIs that what makes it poetry? Starting each line with a capital letter?
For the record, I enjoyed it.
Where is Wardlow in relation to Sheffield?
ReplyDeleteRHYMES WITH PLAGUE You have waved some meat at the caged dog and poked him with a stick but he isn't responding. Wardlow is a tiny linear village south west of Sheffield - in what we call The White Peak - limestone country. I'm pleased you enjoyed it because when I wrote this poem I wasn't sure how readers might see it.
ReplyDeleteLiving in the same place my ancestors grew up -- actually that little shack reminds me of my house -- this poem toggled feelings I have at least twice a day. The old house endures. The old trees endure, the weeds slink right back as soon as someone turns their back. But the people and their lives and expectations have changed so much. I'm always debating with myself whether that's good or bad. It's not entirely either one.
ReplyDeleteJAN It pleases me that my little poem "toggled" feelings in your own mind about past and present and that it was able to travel so far.
ReplyDelete