In But A Little While

Wildness is the preservation of the world. I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit. - Thoreau

past the moor once painted red with the blood of our forefathers

where sheep know nothing but the bounds of an old stone wall

as they graze blamelessly 'pon the undeniable truth of lush, emerald green hills

beyond the old, weathered woolshed that warmed our hopes and comforted our dreams

where the sun shines so brightly that a squint was all we could muster

'neath the old willow tree that first covered us

where our innocent, eager lips first tasted each other through a pint of gat and some crumbs of cheese on a youthful picnic

where we first met god and trusted in faith

meet me down by the old millstream

where the grist wheel once spun freely, feeding our flesh and nourishing our souls

where bagpipes swore an anthem's oath with the weary breath of allegiance

where you can still reckon the old church bell to this very day

counting the hours off in the distance

where we first saw the stars countless like grains of sand

through heavy, parted clouds in the silent, night sky

the moon watching and glowing like a proud mother

as we danced 'neath its undeniable fluorescence

meet me there

meet me there my love

and we'll live again

nursing on eternity

as freely as the day we were born

where the air is thick but mild

where creation first smiled

where the grass grows thick and wild

me a highlands nipper and you a belfast child

oh, meet me there my love

i pray you remember the way

and all the things our hearts needn't say

wear what you will and worry not for style

as time and salvation conquer that which can beguile

oh, please, meet me there my love

in but a little while

Author's Note

"Age is no better, hardly so well, qualified for an instructor as youth, for it has not profited so much as it has lost. One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned anything of absolute value by living." - Thoreau

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

'meet me there
meet me there my love
and we'll live again
nursing on eternity
as freely as the day we were born
where the air is thick but mild
where creation first smiled
where the grass grows thick and wild
me a highlands nipper and you a belfast child
oh, meet me there my love
i pray you remember the way
and all the things our hearts needn't say
wear what you will and worry not for style
as time and honesty conquer what once beguiled
oh, please, meet me there my love

in but a little while'

For me the above is the heart of your poem, beautifully said, emotionally pure, history said in such a devoted share with the love of your life. Also, the chosen picture and song perhaps make up a convoluted frames that in no way dilute your finely set post, Pete.

[Pete]

can't disagree with anything you've said. as i'm sure you're well aware by now, music inspires me and thoughts spill from listening to a song. thanks so much for sharing - much appreciated as always. take good care in a new year ... :)

[emmajoygreen]

Being, feeling, happy cannot be bought or borrowed, Pete - as you know.

[Pete]

"Happiness is like a butterfly, the more you chase it, the more it will elude, but if you turn your attention to other things it will come and sit softly on your shoulder. " - Thoreau

[emmajoygreen]

Tis true.. is called 'trying too hard'

That said, once slowly stepped into a wild buddleia and felt butterflies skip, stop and fly here and there on my face. Yes, it took seconds to get used to their movements but.,. was quickly absolute magic, Perhaps keep that scene a secret from your man!

[Pete]

... would probably not be easy to keep anything secret from the likes of him - he used to look under rocks and count the rings in trees. he is credited with having discovered quite a few life forms... :)

[Gee]

Another great song to accompany your none to shabby, rather splendid, words Pete.
Loved it...am a tad jealous in fact :)

[Pete]

thanks gee. yes, it is a great, moving song. as you must well know by now, music often stirs me to write ... :)

[Ken Simm.]

This is the heart of the Highlands. Throughout history. Enough said. I recognise where I live and not just physically.

[Pete]

we are inextricably woven into the fabric and history of where we call home. our souls one with it. thank you for sharing ken, i figured this would draw your attention ... :)

[Ookpik]

Nice one Pete,

Having been raised on music like this (Sinead was a frequently played artist, in my family) I can't help but appreciate where writing like this might've come from - there's a longing here that I understand well, and coupled with the thematic imagery that informs the narrative, I get both the impression of loneliness and a desire to re-connect with a heritage that might've otherwise grown distant.

(mind you, I'm biased, as I have a secreted kind of fantasy to do a year or two in Boston, and in my mind it's the kind of place that exemplifies those qualities).

Regardless, and with all respect, I don't sense an ounce of convolution here, just a writer that got the pen started and the right kind of imagination to rev the motor.

Beautifully written, and thanks for sharing.

P.S. I'm a bit jealous, I think, as I've been aching to just sit at my keyboard, juices flowing, and write what I feel for a very long time. We can get lost in the technicalities of the work, sometimes, and I think many of us have been wanting for the oomf to paint as passionate a picture as you've presented here. ; )

Well done, and all the best to you.

-Ook

[Pete]

thank you for sharing ook. this spilled out one day as i listened to a song. music stirs all sorts of things within me. when it's there, it's there and when not it is not. sinead boasts a not-soon-forgotten voice and presence. boston has much to offer though i don't make it into the city proper much anymore but when i did there was plenty to see and do. best regards ... :)

[Ookpik]

Without assuming, and because I've often done the same, I feel sometimes that the music that carries me away when I'm writing - the 'muse', or the almost possessive drive that can sometimes seem to solely be responsible for the wheel - often touches more upon what was already there than it does occupy an open-space that wasn't.

I picture a kind of a key and a lock analogy when thinking about how music affects the writing, and I have a tendency to emphasize (among those that might share the habit) that it's the lock, as opposed to the pick, that sometimes warrants the most attention.

Some of my better, deeper ideas have come from exploring that vein.

Food for thought, regardless, and if irrelevant to you feel welcome to disregard it. :)

All the best,

-Ook

[Pete]

hardly disregarding, i concur ...