By Brian Phillips, living with PH
Halfway, along the hillside.
Betwixt the sea and sky.
The Coastal Path meanders,
And so perforce must I.
The densely crowded bushes,
Tenacious, grip the rock.
Whilst greenery creeps up the fence,
Which keeps me from the drop
The path dips and the living screen,
Conceals the views from sight.
Encased in blue and green and brown,
My shadow, scared, takes flight.
The rhythmic sound of the restless waves,
Comes muted to my ear.
Whilst unseen birds inject their calls,
Sweet trills, both loud and clear.
Around a bend, where forks the path,
Appears an iron gate.
When action of its ”To and Fro,”
Means people separate.
Beyond this entry, in a bowl,
There stands a country church.
And huddled round, in row on row,.
The drunken headstones lurch.
Cheek by jowl the Worthies lie,
For a century or three.
Whilst winds and rains erase their names,
From prying you and me.
Daffodils, clump everywhere,
All splashed against the green,
On banks and graves and flowerbeds,
Their shaded yellows gleam.
Their silent trumpets, Fanfare,
Enough to wake the dead.
But no one stirs, they turn not,
Within each lone cold bed..
I claim a vacant, sunny seat,
And sit, with eyes averted,
To ponder on Life’s vagaries,
In this churchyard all deserted.
I sat for an hour, or thereabouts,
And my thoughts ranged far and wide,
As I pondered the meaning of Life and Death,
(And the many “World’s Ills” beside.)
I wasn’t asleep. (Well, not very deep,
I’d suggest it was just a light doze,)
But woke with a start, (not good for the heart,)
To the poke of a cold wet nose.
His Mistress came near, with apologies clear,
And explained that he “Liked to make friends!”
Then she went down the path with a chuckling laugh,
And that’s how my reverie ends.
Stiffly, I stand, this was not as I planned,
I just fancied a walk to be free.
So with unsteady gait, I returned to the gate
And homeward did stroll to my tea.
