This Garden of Skipton

 

     The accusations are muted here,

No more audible

Than a gentle summer

Breeze through the branches

Of trees that shimmer in

The sun,

     I can gain some

Peace until once again

The making ready of the gun

Signals the end of tranquillity,

     The brief startle

Breaking reverie of freedoms –

Now subject to despondency

And dreadful manner of

Memories  - punctuating

A gait that slumps.

 

     Still,

I follow the horizon

Of green wonder,

I see the elderly

Smiling as in years

Of living that have

Faired them well,

     I know each their name

Too - and talk in tones

Of happiness despite

My inward gloom,

And this existence

Until my death

Makes light my suffering,

Takes flight of fancy

And excitement

As the sun casts shadows

For the fish to hide

In rivers where the effluence

Of man has not interfered,

     Or polluted life,

 

     This is doable!

This is more than doable -

It is the substance

That’s been missing

From my soul,

     Yet I fear I am only

A guest with time

Running out for healing,

For in every dark

Crevice I know them to be,

To live and fester,

As I know the sharpest tones

I hear upon my daily

Play;

     The voices

Of the dead from which

I cannot hide.

 

     I could lie and say I’m healed,

But the cities rot takes time

To rid itself,

     As do the memories

Of war that I once held

In virtue before becoming

Witness - and being honest,

There isn’t much difference,

     Just battle-grounds

Where the dead insist

They harness the beating

Of my heart,

 

     My home

Has gotten meaning

While the way I am demeans

My core existence,

I am done unto this world

But for my children,

Are the chances that

Never shown themselves to

Me, and for that,

I can take the mocking

And the beatings -

That entertains my death,

     And know that

The babes my wife and I

Bore unto this world -

Will live their lives; free!

 

 

Dedicated to the Village of Gargrave.

Michael J Waite 7th July 2015.