SHRINE

Woke up this morning with these first two lines in my head, from which the rest (in seven stanzas of seven lines) flowed. No idea if it's any good but hope someone might enjoy scanning it?

Shrine by Tim Veater.

In time your house becomes a shrine -

The walls and roof enclose a mine of memories.

The objects on the shelves,

The pictures on the walls,

The furniture, windows, doors, all recall

A multitude of comings and goings.

Unique the characters and events,

That altogether shaped your life -

The context and the back-drop to it all.

Four square the walls, the little box has grown,

Accretions, all in their own time,

Adding to the plan and elevations.

The tiny people grown have come and gone,

The sound of footsteps on the pebbled ground,

The distant voices still resound,

Within the inner space and ear.

It weathered gales and storms,

Rain, hail and snow and blistering heat.

Power cuts, blockages and leaks,

Of settlement and rots,

Of mice and rats, birds, bats and creaks,

Of passing dogs and cats,

Even a fleeting, bleeting goat!

As onward, onward bound the clock of time,

The pendulum within its walnut case,

Keeps swinging to and fro -

A metronome of grace.

Weekly mechanically the key is wound,

As ever more weakly I become,

As closer draws the final chime.

Once filled with bodies and their sounds,

The squeals of laughter, howls of scorn,

The plaster walls soaked up it all

The waves of energy and expectation

The fading light of musical exasperation

As human frailties took their toll.

The terror of the starless night and hopeless dawn.

Exiting stage left, in rancour

The characters moved off, moved on,

The house, bereft, remains,

Its contents emblematic of the moments gone.

Each item with its own report,

Finding the long lost deed is goodly sport.

Elsewhere, the dead died dying for a home.

Sequestered from the world I here reside

In nature's bower almost content.

A far cry from a mansion in the sky,

It none the less fulfills my fundament.

Within this humble pile, familiar abode,

I pass my time and luckily abide,

Calling this shrine my own.

Chaffinch

As I lay on my bed reminiscing times with John,

Outside a Chaffinch flew into my sight;

He landed on an Hazel twig

And in the sunlight, like a jewel shone.

 

I rubbed my sleepy eyes,

The better for to see this beauteous bird,

But it had flipped its wings

And in an instant – gone.

 

“Come back, come back”, I plead;

Too short this brief encounter.

You deign to stoop from lofty heights

On wings, to intercede and honour me.


Mixing great delight, with everlasting pain,

How passing pleasure intervenes -

A temporary thrill -

And then must fly again.


“Please stay, please stay”,

So I may see and feel,

My panting heart grow stronger,

List to my soul's appeal.


“Impossible” is nature's implacable reply,

Nothing remains or stays the same,

Such moments few and far between,

Cannot be recalled – except to memory;

I blink, the vision gone away -

All earthy joys will fade or fly.

17.5.2024

TRENGWAINTON IN MAY

The path meanders through the trees,

Soaring above in majestic splendour;

Between bamboos and evergreens,

It leads me up and under.

A tall straight Ash is being felled,

With orange noose about its trunk;

Sadly a note informs it's not exempt

From deathly 'Die-back's sad sentence.

Except 'stay clear', the notice says,

For bees are nesting in its base,

The sentence thus has been deferred,

And tree has had a day of grace.

Each tree competes, yet compliments the rest,

Learning its place and knowing what is best;

Defying natural hydrolic laws,

Conveying water to its upmost boughs.

One hundred feet above our heads,

Its green, light-dappled canopy shade those

Below, where furtive Squirrels dart

And Long-tailed Tits flit purposefully.

The people sit and wait, in silent Hide,

Comparing notes about their tree-less state back home.

“We've Sparrows” the man with northern accent notes

“And Squirrels”, the lady joyfully replies.

Wending my way, on up the gentle slope,

Each tree defines its own distinctive shape;

The mighty Redwood with its damp moss covered bark,

The no less mighty Quercus English Oak.

The wandering twos and threes, in short-sleeved shirts

And summer frocks, Look out on these in silent awe

And think that they phlegmatic, like the trees,

Reflect upon the national temperment.

A generation largely spared from war and want,

Now looking 'die-back' in the face,

Indulge themselves in life-times earned accomplishment,

Trengwainton's history, and beauteous pathways trace.

We nod and exchange polite 'Hellos',

'What lovely weather' bon homie but note,

We have not met before and never will again,

Although in Eden this is Spring before the Fall.

Meanwhile, high up, ahead, from far-off land,

A Rhododendron screams a scarlet red,

The shrubs ablaze in contrasting tones,

Of white and pink and violet.

So on we press o'er ornate bridge and Lilly pond,

Reminiscent of Monet's many famous canvases,

Of which he never tired, nor us,

The water fall and tinkling stream inspired.

Out into the blazing sun we come,

A vast and well-kept lawn like baize,

With far-off landscape, with fields of green,

Unspoiled by brick or stone or ugly town.

And there beyond the sweep of sea and sky,

All blue with white-topped fluffy clouds,

The faint outline hint of Lizard's line, between,

The hoypoloi thus sensually seduced, enjoy,

The benefit of sweating men beneath the ground.