The road winds through the woods and the sun strobes through the tress like a dream machine. I see an old stone wall, forgotten now, from of a time when this was farmland, when the road was dirt, grooved with wagon wheels and the clippity-clop of horse hooves. My parents are talking up front, but I can’t hear them. The soundtrack in the headphones merged with the landscape fills me with an air of melancholy. This is your heart, boy; stay close, stay close to me, there are no words for what we feel.
I understand this completely, it's like the same sensations of time and being of where I have been converge with this story, and here are yours words, so meaningful and true. And yet, I abide my own. Now with reverence that the energy is electric from memory. Thank you!
A very nice read, like the stone wall running alongside the road till it can no longer keep up but becomes itself and eventually returns to the cosmic dust we all came from.
Wonderful, Robin! I love this poem, too, and all of The Four Quartets.Thank you for making the connection and sharing this (which I missed, somehow, until this morning. 🙏✨
This is beautiful; thank you, Oliver. It made me think of Eliot’s “Little Gidding”:
LITTLE GIDDING
V
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration.
A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always-
A condition of complete simplicity,
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
So beautiful. Thank you for sharing this . It pulled me back to the present moment. A respite from the nonsense .🙏
You are welcome, Elle. Thank you for reading. 🙏
I understand this completely, it's like the same sensations of time and being of where I have been converge with this story, and here are yours words, so meaningful and true. And yet, I abide my own. Now with reverence that the energy is electric from memory. Thank you!
Thanks for these fine and meaningful musings.
A very nice read, like the stone wall running alongside the road till it can no longer keep up but becomes itself and eventually returns to the cosmic dust we all came from.
Beautiful and Inspiring. Thank you for sharing those moments...
Wonderful, Robin! I love this poem, too, and all of The Four Quartets.Thank you for making the connection and sharing this (which I missed, somehow, until this morning. 🙏✨