All poets must die (Sunshine Time mix)
In loving memory of Michael Walton
aka The Bard of Beer
There used to be a tunnelled path through the old poet’s wild garden
which I always felt free to use
and hanging within a bush at the top of the path
there was a dragon-embossed gong
which I’d faithfully strike
three times
so that the sprites of the place knew that I was coming down
and
later
three strikes more
to inform them I had safely returned
and then a little further down from the gong
tied to the perpendicular branches of one of the conifers
were six or seven knotted old sea-ropes
threaded through sea-forged hagstone holes
dangling like the spines and skulls of once-hallowed trolls
You could barely see the walls and windows or even the roof of his house
so shockingly and impressively overgrown his property and home
There was just a well-trod path to a humble garage door
I often wondered where he slept
and how he dwelt inside that place and time
Oh, there was more than a touch of liminality
and perhaps even insanity
to his shaggy kingdom
of joy and woe and brambles
woven so freely and so fine
The first time I ever met him
was half way along the path one night
(I was going up – he was coming down)
I almost jumped out of my skin with both fright and delight
Suddenly before me this bright tiny man not quite of this world
bushy white wizard-king-beard
and either side of his crown unfurled
two shocks of white unruly hair
and as he passed by
a falsetto voice
fluttered and trilled and disturbed and charmed me
and then he was gone
down to the village
and his favoured place in his favoured pub
perched next to the pebbled beach of the harbour
I felt like I’d just skirted a whirlpool to some fae-angelic-realm
that most of us no longer remember
or have forgotten how to see
Eventually
he died
as all poets must
and his home was purchased
and the land was cleared
and the path was diverted around the sensible right angles of
the property’s legal bounds
For a year I mourned
the closing of that portal
But here I am today
with the new owner
inside the gutted house
handing over cash for the old copper boiler
and there in one of the bare rooms
several stacks of plastic-wrapped books
of Michael’s esoteric verse and prose
I ask if I can take a couple
– “SUNSHINE TIME” embossed in gold upon their
flower-and-bird-and-butterfly-patterned covers
and as I hold the books close to my chest
time and space warp around the gravity of their pages
life and art and death and mystery and tragedy and beauty and
oh how special and how vulnerable this human life of ours
including mine
including his
including yours
each of us a fleeting poem
trembling briefly upon the surface of a sun-lit stream
as it follows its ancient calling down
to the wide open mouth of the hagstone sea
In loving memory of Michael Walton
aka The Bard of Beer
There used to be a tunnelled path through the old poet’s wild garden
which I always felt free to use
and hanging within a bush at the top of the path
there was a dragon-embossed gong
which I’d faithfully strike
three times
so that the sprites of the place knew that I was coming down
and
later
three strikes more
to inform them I had safely returned
and then a little further down from the gong
tied to the perpendicular branches of one of the conifers
were six or seven knotted old sea-ropes
threaded through sea-forged hagstone holes
dangling like the spines and skulls of once-hallowed trolls
You could barely see the walls and windows or even the roof of his house
so shockingly and impressively overgrown his property and home
There was just a well-trod path to a humble garage door
I often wondered where he slept
and how he dwelt inside that place and time
Oh, there was more than a touch of liminality
and perhaps even insanity
to his shaggy kingdom
of joy and woe and brambles
woven so freely and so fine
The first time I ever met him
was half way along the path one night
(I was going up – he was coming down)
I almost jumped out of my skin with both fright and delight
Suddenly before me this bright tiny man not quite of this world
bushy white wizard-king-beard
and either side of his crown unfurled
two shocks of white unruly hair
and as he passed by
a falsetto voice
fluttered and trilled and disturbed and charmed me
and then he was gone
down to the village
and his favoured place in his favoured pub
perched next to the pebbled beach of the harbour
I felt like I’d just skirted a whirlpool to some fae-angelic-realm
that most of us no longer remember
or have forgotten how to see
Eventually
he died
as all poets must
and his home was purchased
and the land was cleared
and the path was diverted around the sensible right angles of
the property’s legal bounds
For a year I mourned
the closing of that portal
But here I am today
with the new owner
inside the gutted house
handing over cash for the old copper boiler
and there in one of the bare rooms
several stacks of plastic-wrapped books
of Michael’s esoteric verse and prose
I ask if I can take a couple
– “SUNSHINE TIME” embossed in gold upon their
flower-and-bird-and-butterfly-patterned covers
and as I hold the books close to my chest
time and space warp around the gravity of their pages
life and art and death and mystery and tragedy and beauty and
oh how special and how vulnerable this human life of ours
including mine
including his
including yours
each of us a fleeting poem
trembling briefly upon the surface of a sun-lit stream
as it follows its ancient calling down
to the wide open mouth of the hagstone sea
