As moving waves don’t behave,
As birds fly in shapes and forms not predefined,
We,as beings,don’t always behave and act in certain ways.
As silence dictates my observance of its stillness,
It is the prelude,methinks,of the western rains that sweep across the county,
Never one not to be sensitive,I feel it’s threatening presence in this temporary stillness,
For it is,my non “Cliffhanger”,as I know that it will come upon this place.
When all is said about this “St Anthony” stillness,others will,in time notice,as Alfred Rouse noticed it but wrote in eloquent stances,
My words,true and honest,nay,authentic,don’t penetrate like his,for he was,in truth,a Cornish Bard,a genius of his age,
Now,long dead,his words still ring out:”Cornwall is wasted on the Cornish”,
Those words ,brutal and arrogant,were what he felt an upbringing in the clay areas of St Austell were,
They were,toe,a different journey ,a paradox in many ways.
So,,I reflect in this pseudo poem,this story within a poem,this Bard might have dismissed as “Food for the waste paper basket”
But then,would have welled up if I played Chopin,or. Rahms,or Schumann,
So,that memory contained in the poem story,continued in this Anthony observation is my Monday muse,
It was A L Rowse lyrical love fest,it was his favourite country house,it made him well up at the thought of it,
Maybe it was “his real dark lady” and that is what all Bards know.