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.
© J.B. Stobbart - September 2020
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