An Original Poem by Jon B. Stobbart

In Praise

An Original Poem by Jon B. Stobbart

 

We undertake a pilgrimage

To a transcriber of the heart,

Mile upon mile drags then speeds by.

 

We stand in a possible world

Where Henchard and Tess were born,

Where woodlands are wealth and true strength.


And between an avenue of trees

And a late conservatory,

Her narrow life, her shade of sorrow,


Between the view across the garden

And four walls that are still humming,

A thousand poems of love that’s lost,


A syntax torn apart by tomorrows,

A powdered plume of long-legged moths:

In this place, at a time, in space.


And little did I know, busy at days,

That though poetry is the praise of life,

Its pilgrimage is the making of us:


Our steps, the humming in that room,

Walking the avenue of trees, - these

Are great things made against our loss.

This image may be subject to copyright

© J.B. Stobbart - September 2020

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