The Thinking Poet



Time and its flight can be frightening!
Years melt in a lightening-flash.
When last I came here they were kids, 
Mere striplings.
They raced up the ramparts
And took the fort by storm.
Yesterday they came clutching clouds;
Now they grab at other skies, less real.

Here on the Beacon
The year grows old as I grow old;
Other limbs than my kinís come cavorting 
To Ivinghoe.
Generations come and go,
Scuffing the turf a little,
Leaping like lambs,
And shouting their joy sky-high
Before they depart.

They leave the hills in silence
Alone beneath the scudding clouds, and sun,
Just as when this story was begun.


Ron Cretchley