SOMERSET
Along the hedgerows of the mind
where, kestrel swift or campion still,
I wander wrapped in legends cloak,
midst relics birth I walk at will.
‘Cross hollowed lime and stony cleft,
Axe, hewn beneath thyme scented soil,
to wooded Leigh where Abbot’s Pool
lays softer than treecreeper’s call.
Heaved upwards in primordial sigh,
when sandstone battled with the lime,
to breathe the wake of merlin’s flight
in Black Down Peak’s primeval time.
In mist: the lure of Cheddar Pink,
a breath beyond encrusted cave.
Stand quiet; near the circled four;
And Priddy’s nine bronzed barrow'd graves.
Link-formed in past of layered stone
mute weave of Pax Romanic lore
and metric legion’s sandled tread;
green hummock'd, Glastonbury Tor.
‘Twas there, before the marshes drained,
'ere stranger’s foot pressed hallowed grass,
saw symbol crossed in Celtic rite
at Ynys-Witrin, Isle of Glass.
‘Tis long since I’ve climbed Banwell Hill,
where level’d cross held Devil’s ire,
and even longer Athelney’s claim
to regal ears boxed by the fire.
Beware tho’ treading Banwell’s path,
Hell’s piper took a gentle guise
and wedded folk at Stanton Drew
all turned to stone before sunrise.
A pebble toss’d with oaken arm
Can ripple in the heated stream
Where prince, or pauper, came to rest,
So Bath, emerged from swineherd’s dream.
Soft Aquae Sulis waters tho’
eased weariness from Legion’s wounds
while shadow’s need was penny cress
from Charterhouse’s gruffy ground.
Tho’ backalong, before the Thorn,
‘fore Blue Ben’s fiery breath was cooled
and red clothed fairies ran in dread
when Wookey’s witchey anger ruled.
Then, god of Herculean strength,
when questing for the fairest land,
did journey in his Golden Bowl
And rested in this Summer Land.
But come! Unleash anchoret heart
and open winged freedoms door
as blackcaps, redstarts, thrush and wren
bring gifts of whispers from Sedgemoor.
Then onward, sloughing with the wind,
o’er Ashen Hill and Ebbor’s Wood,
to listen to the stonechat’s cry
at Shute Shelve, where the gallows stood.
Step back awhile to Duking days,
from Queen’s Sedge Moor to Taunton rope,
brief glory ends at Heddon’s Tree
tho’ Locking Well held Plumley’s hope.
Then further back to hollow hill,
Arthurian sleep, seven winters long,
midsummer’s eve stirs Cadbury’s rest
and gallant band moves quietly on.
Yes souls lay restless, seeking hearth,
not Avon, but sweet childhood tongue
finds solace where old boundary lay,
in Summer Land, where hearts belong.
O reclaim this for Somerset:
All spirit land from stricken poll,
that pixies, dragons, fairies green
cast shadows in their rightful roll.
In west of West, where Bleadon stands
where welcome’s raw for redhead Danes,
black Channel’s liquid road extends
for those returning home again.
To gentle heart of Somerset.
those “Clouded hills” and “Mountains green”,
just myths and legends forged in song,
tho’ ‘majyk beings’ sometimes seen.
For past is now and now is past,
sweet moment shared in nature’s lap
will not diminish in our time
but grow abundant primrose knap.
Lone swallow swoops thru’ Avon Gorge
to pause suspended, high and free,
then music; nature’s lambent voice
calls cuckoo soft, from Abbot’s Leigh.
“Or bid me love and I will give,”
young Herrick’s plea to former love.
But bid me love and I will climb
“Cruc’s badger trace to peak above.
There lay my head in summer grass
along the crest of dry-stone wall,
then surge with passion’d skylark’s song
of love, beyond the poet’s call.
Reg Kear © 1995.
