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The Fruitage of Walking. Options
Posted: Thursday, November 15, 2012 5:50:34 AM

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Joined: 6/1/2011
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Location: United Kingdom
One beautiful late summer’s day in 2002 I went for a walk on a much loved route. Well into my walk I decided to deviate from my chosen path…. I like doing that… and entered a wood I had not investigated before. Instead of following the beaten track I branched off and came across a small clearing in which was a large oak tree. Beneath the tree I espied a small granite memorial stone with letters carved in it, which had largely worn away.

This set me thinking, and as a consequence, over time, I ended up writing two poems. One of these poems is a hundred verses long and is in narrative form…. I will not bore you with all of it, suffice to it say was a poem about injustice… a recurring theme in my books and poetry. I have listed a few verses that dwell on justice personified.

I find walking so invigorating and mentally refreshing. Who among us likes to walk?

The first poem was The Reminder.

On chancing upon a small gravestone
beneath a great oak in the corner of
a remote wood.

In ancient woodlands where natures bluebell grows
And squirrels make their dreys.
Where narrow bedrock stream, winding, gently flows
By oak and ash, and grassy verges
Singing forgotten tunes along endless ways,
To green field meadows, where it emerges.
Then leaves behind in some darkened corner
Of quiet and peaceful woodland glade,
A small tombstone that knows no mourner,
Nor sees no sun, as in constant shade
It stands. A silent yet poignant reminder
To the rambling woodland finder.

Engraved in letters simple, yet bold and deep,
By now long forgotten fathers love,
There is the name of a child at sleep.
And here beside this drab grey stone
There lies still yet the limb from oak above,
That rent and left the poor girl prone.
Like a flower not fully bloomed, yet trampled down,
She departed this, the livings land,
And no one saw her glory, her full-grown crown.
She, alas, was dealt life’s bitter hand.
Now all her promise, her full daughters role,
Lies shortened in this earthly hole.

We shall not her name reveal, on this, an epitaph for all.
For she so young and sleeping now,
Lies and waits in death’s own silence, A symbol
Of all those who wait as her,
For that day when shall the trumpet blow.
Then all who lie below will rise,
And we shall wonder at the love that did life reclaim
To bask in its eternal flame
Then fathers’ tears of unbounded joy will flow,
As daughter dear walks beneath blue skies.
Then shall she flower amidst earths’ bower,
Then shall the past seem but a distant hour.

A year later I revisited this lonely tomb and was inspired to write my hundred verse narrative poem. Here are a few verses…. out of sequence… that dwell on the theme of injustice.

A narrative poem 2003
On chancing upon a small
Tombstone in the corner
of a remote wood.
See ‘The Reminder’

( selected verses from a hundred verse poem)

Shafts of sunlight pierce the wooded gloom
And cast their rays upon ancient tomb
Close by an old and weathered oak it stands
Untouched ere many years by human hands.

Beneath green garment of rooted moss
And gatherings of centuries dross
Carved firm upon the hard granite stone
Are the names of those who lay alone.

Deep here within the folds of covering time
Is hidden a story of love; sublime
Which went beyond mere human duty
And left a legacy of lasting beauty.

And yonder over meadow past glorious mansion
There lies in honour the great Lord Stancheon
There beneath lone yew, in much-hallowed place
He lays, a paragon of the human race
Encased in green’ed marble from Italy imported
An honourable gentleman, or so reported
And e’en now with two long passing century
His tomb is visited by the local gentry.

However, Justice, still she waits to sing her song,
Even tho’ two hundred years have passed e’er long
And Justice, still she sleeps her sleep
While good reputations the wicked keep.

But Justice, still it looks the other way
Yet still it says we'll wait another day
And Justice turns its eyes beyond
And leaves her people in evil’s bond.
Now Justice, is Justice yet aware of this
Or does it lie in ignorance and bliss
And Justice, does it really care
And does it care how its people fare

However, Justice yawns its sleepy yawn of old
And leaves it people out in the cold
She has great patience, she doesn’t hurry
What cause has she to fret or worry.

Silent Justice, moribund justice, where is she
Is she wooden like the oaken tree
Peaceful justice undisturbed, unperturbed
Lazy justice, hazy Justice, has she heard.

Wake up justice flex your arms, rise, sound off your alarms.
Ply your cause pursue your end and to your object your power lend.
Fuel your indignation, water it with fiery irrigation
Stand on your feet your course complete.

But I mere mortal that I am grow impatient
The wheels of Justice are but slow, but then they are but sure
Compared to just a few hundred years, eternity is more
And the future, why it reaps beyond what we endure.

It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. Aristotle
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