A Pause On A Long Drive

Upon the road to Cambussbarron, I stopped awhile to rest

Beneath a brooding mass of woods, ranked from crest to crest

The whispers of poets long since dead, forged into my mind

Fine words expressed with wonder, I can never hope to find

These looming trees reduce me, to thoughtful speechlessness

Their silent patience endless as I take my travellers rest

 

Cambussbarron, Cambussbarron, a place I've never seen

For always on my way there, these trees stand in between

The name evokes a mystery, so surely undeserved

For though it lives in history, the history is the word

That history is gone now and all it leaves behind

Is the sense of it that comes from that lonely roadside sign

 

The trees that always stop me, are all of it I know

And long before I reach the town, before the trees I slow

They cease my passing travel and urge me to be still

To sit and stare in wonder at this cloaked and gowned hill

To rest my weary travellers bones and go no further on

In case I may look once again and find that they are gone

 

Cambussbarron remains a place that I may never see

And in a way that matter sits so easily with me

A suggestion of a place with a name that bears no weight

As I stare at this dark tree line from across this wooden gate

Upon the road I always stop and never go much further

The trees remain as sentinels and trap me with their murmur