The Aspiring Bard

Planting a Tree - Sir George Clausen  Did you spare a thought for me When, deeply in a new and wild sod You planted out the seedling grove of hopes? Did you spare a thought that I, Long after all your bones enriched the land Would gather still your hard-won Autumn fruits?

Source The place of memories And shadows of the past That, restful, lie Upon this land In calm repose - Undying in these Unexpected things; Green hills and hollows - Onetime walls, foundations - The fledgling prospects Of a virgin home. A rampant peach grove here, And apple trees, Wind-gnarled, ancient, strong, Broadcasting fruit And quiet reveries. More thoughts on this topic here.  

Source Closing eyes, I face the light Reflected from  A vibrant past Into The present time. I, the mirror, Transient, Yet spanning gaps of Known, Unknown, Live awestruck of this master work - The placement of my Here and now - And grapple vaguely With the thought That I am  Future, Present, Past... United in  This feeble frame, Aglow with light Of other days.

Source Rain gently fell upon the canes And sweetly kissed My tranquil face, While calloused hands (With purple stains) Caressed the perfect, Ripened fruits, Admiring how the raindrops ran In gleaming pools Between the drupes. I tasted of my little hoard, So cool, firm, and freshly wet, A yielding sweetness From the days Of sun and rain and dripping sweat. I felt a certain swelling peace, If this is life, then life is good! I worship here, among the canes, Bareheaded in the summer rains, My busy fingers daubed with stains, And heart turned up to God.

Source Here stand I, The turning point, As time whirls All around. The crux of past and future - I feel this holy ground.

Image source: Flickr I. Rain comes down To heal a broken land, Repairing cracks and chasms Drop by drop. II. I am a blasted, Parched and broken earth, But when you look at me With rainswept eyes, I feel my blighted soul Begin to heal, As drop by drop, The aching chasms fill.

I was unable, despite my best efforts, to find out who took this wonderful photo. These feeble, sickly things I'm calling words Have failed again (Just like they always do). Come read between The many broken lines And see the things I cannot say to You.