By Lake Vyrnwy

A slender tree, vertical as noon

stands alone to the left of the lake.

It is quite beautiful; and close up

the resin swells, live amber glows, 

beckoning my touch, whilst the birdsong 

remains innocent of my passing.

I gaze over the lake's unblemished surface

and think of what has gone before. 

The houses, the post office, the parish church, 

the old Cross Guns Inn that stood at the heart

of the village, and wonder if the ghosts

that lie beneath are watching me back.

Momentarily, a thrush, deluded by a late

evening burst of sun, startles me as it

soars into the weak blue of sky; 

churning the air, a subtle motion, 

curled, then swiftly gone, as it

chases after a stray white cloud. 

I look back at the imprinted grass,

watch how it springs upright 

as if I have never been, 

then listen to the stillness, 

wondering about the years that lie ahead;

as back in the village of my uncle, 

my son is waiting. Ever patient, 
understanding of my need to tilt at
windmills in search of that one perfect line.

Perhaps one day, he will become a poet.

Already, the perils of burgeoning adolescence aside,

there is a certain whimsy to his thoughts;

and I wish he were here with me now,

for like me, he would bask in the glow of amber,

wish the deluded little thrush all God speed.

But the summer day to summer night has slipped

and on my lips lie thoughts that little buds must own the sun.

That destiny alone, this universe, and more,

this human scale, is not just mine; for what remains 

of my slight summer skills, will all too soon be 

as the singing wind between the hills.

Written 21st August 2018. For my son Charlie. 

Reviews

[Eilis]

This is lovely, Beccy. As a mother who is mostly always fully immersed in the job, I understand the push and pull between being the individual and the mother. The desire to be alone with the thoughts but also having the thoughts turn back to the one (ones) you hold so dear.

Both of my children like to write and are much more clever and original than I ever was at their age. My daughter writes plays and is also an artist, and I’m constantly amazed by what she can do. I do have a hope that that passion will carry on into adulthood and that perhaps her love of writing will become something that carries her through. Both of them really. I’m amazed by the things they pick up from me, and how they become something completely different in their heads and hands.

So, all that said I love the way you weave yourself and your son together here (in a sense) but also keep the autonomy of both. The individual nature of each human is something to behold. Regardless of everything, we become ourselves and that is something that cannot be made outside of us.

The poem itself also paints a beautiful, reverent scene. I enjoy how it feels very much like the speaker is alone in the world. As though human time has been paused to allow for uninterrupted contemplation of nature and life.

Just really enjoyed the different facets of this poem. It seems to encompass many moods and emotions— much like the landscape itself does.

[kentuck14]

Beccy,
Truly a lover of nature and son. Love that opening line. "A slender tree, vertical as noon." What a simile!
Yes, I wish one of my daughters would write poetry . . . something about someone carrying on the challenge! All regards,
Tom

[Wild Rose]

wish I could be there with you now at the edge of Lake Vyrnwy
Do the ghosts there come to the surface as they do at Haweswater
The old walls and roads exposed
Where the mud deposit turns green again
Until the rains return as they have in the past

[CD Campbell]

I can't help but to feel a sorrow for the passing of time on this work. You capture true beauty wrapped in melancholy as in seeing the decaying leaves below will bring about new spring growth, but knowing nothing is eternal. There is only the hope that the romance we could possibly pass down does not go to waste. It is a really good poem. CD

[barleygirl]

This is one of the most lyrical & poetic pieces describing nature & I love nature. I've probably written a hundred or more, but never thought about the way you've combined words, observations, & feelings to tell a story that's compelling & fresh. There's a little bit of a haunting feeling here becuz we don't know why your son is not there & it seems like "missing him" saturates some of your more artful phrases. This poem has a great balance of imagery & intelligence (((HUGS))) Fondly Margie

[alanwgraham]

This is really quite lovely Beccy, and deep, as the lake. I really like how you relate your observations of the surroundings to your own thoughts. The imprinted grass and ghosts of the lost village are very strong. I can identify with you how you think about whether your son might be a poet. My kids are grown up and they look a bit bemused when I try to share my latest ramblings. Your final verse is a great and quite philosophical summary.
Regards.
Alan

[Ken Simm.]

Somewhere I know very well and somewhere you took me back to with the first line. Like a piece of music you recognise within the first few notes this brought back many bitter sweet memories. A lovely piece with the added incentive to Charlie so woven into it. A paean to creativity.

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

A couple things came to mind as I read this,

I thought of how when I pass old abandoned farms I stare at them imaging what it was like when a family occupied it.

Your thing about the grass makes me think of what I say bout nature being a miracle, just look at grass and how it can live after been walked on over and over.

[lakinbob]

Outstanding. Poetry as it should be. Will say no more, except that your son is a lucky young man.


LB