Homework 04-03-13 'Whisperings'
Posted: Mon Feb 25, 2013 6:16 pm
“WHISPERINGS” © Glenny Palmer
The iron lace holds rusting to the fence around the grave,
the headstone leans forlorn, in vain despair,
the jewelled blaze of sunset briefly melts upon her name,
and I swear I heard her whisper, “...are you there?..
...have you come at last to visit, did you hear my yearning plea,
did my vision reach you in your dream last night,
will you tarry on this cloistered ground, commune with me a while,
grant me fleetingly, a glimpse again, of light?”
I surveyed the scene around me, searched the yawning desert gold,
where the shadows cast, in total, numbered three,
the grave, myself, and staunch in duty, noble sentinel,
a solitary, lonely gidyea tree.
”Do you hear me.?” on she whispered, so familiar she seemed,
and awkwardly I answered, “...yes, I do.”
”An age it seems I’ve waited, do you realise my child,
that the waiting now, has passed as well, for you?
For the desert tenders silence that accords you leave to hear,
to comprehend the singing of your soul,
for so long you have been deafened by the clamour of the crush,
been seduced by duty, stolen from your goal.
Know your duty now is honoured, and your striving too, declared,
that your purpose, like the road you walk, will turn,
you must follow where it leads you, see? it guided you to me,
find your courage now, embrace what you must learn.”
I saw then in the ether all the babies I had borne,
all the little ones I’d nurtured, now full grown,
and I watched them marching proudly on their own distinctive paths,
and I realised my journey is my own.
I saw my ageing husband with his withered hands in mine,
those hands that brought us sustenance and care,
in his eyes that weary craving, compensation for his bride,
for a legacy he always prayed was there.
I then beheld the seasons, how they knew just when to turn,
and I heard the tolling of my season’s bell,
again her whispered urgings stirred the consciousness within,
that the story of my life, is mine to tell.
In gratitude I picked for her a single desert pea,
and blessed the humble blossom where it fell,
I gathered up my dreams and placed them back inside my heart,
and I kissed the leaning headstone, fond farewell.
The iron lace holds rusting to the fence around the grave,
the headstone leans forlorn, in vain despair,
the jewelled blaze of sunset briefly melts upon her name,
and I swear I heard her whisper, “...are you there?..
...have you come at last to visit, did you hear my yearning plea,
did my vision reach you in your dream last night,
will you tarry on this cloistered ground, commune with me a while,
grant me fleetingly, a glimpse again, of light?”
I surveyed the scene around me, searched the yawning desert gold,
where the shadows cast, in total, numbered three,
the grave, myself, and staunch in duty, noble sentinel,
a solitary, lonely gidyea tree.
”Do you hear me.?” on she whispered, so familiar she seemed,
and awkwardly I answered, “...yes, I do.”
”An age it seems I’ve waited, do you realise my child,
that the waiting now, has passed as well, for you?
For the desert tenders silence that accords you leave to hear,
to comprehend the singing of your soul,
for so long you have been deafened by the clamour of the crush,
been seduced by duty, stolen from your goal.
Know your duty now is honoured, and your striving too, declared,
that your purpose, like the road you walk, will turn,
you must follow where it leads you, see? it guided you to me,
find your courage now, embrace what you must learn.”
I saw then in the ether all the babies I had borne,
all the little ones I’d nurtured, now full grown,
and I watched them marching proudly on their own distinctive paths,
and I realised my journey is my own.
I saw my ageing husband with his withered hands in mine,
those hands that brought us sustenance and care,
in his eyes that weary craving, compensation for his bride,
for a legacy he always prayed was there.
I then beheld the seasons, how they knew just when to turn,
and I heard the tolling of my season’s bell,
again her whispered urgings stirred the consciousness within,
that the story of my life, is mine to tell.
In gratitude I picked for her a single desert pea,
and blessed the humble blossom where it fell,
I gathered up my dreams and placed them back inside my heart,
and I kissed the leaning headstone, fond farewell.
So I am trying to take into account what Neville is always telling me about putting words in back to front and to me that is what is going on here.