THIS POEMS’ GOT THE LOVE POURED IN IT, AND MY LUTE – by Worzel
Here you go Lad have a warm up, the old kneeling Peace Woman said, handing Godfrey a hot cup of tea she had boiled and a crust of fire scorched bread. His cold hands warmed by the billy-pot, the smoky campfire welcome and hot, Godfrey shared with her the tinned condensed milk he had bought.
Content, the Peace Woman slurped her tea, sat back and thought for a minute, her wise eyes looked out across the frost rimed common, she told him this pot of teas’ got the love of life poured in it.
..He was hot this day, backpack weighing heavy, before him stretched a long, bright, mighty beach of sand. Godfrey down under living the vagabond dream. He knew it was a long hike to the forest path and cool running stream.This water has the love poured in it, he whispered as he cupped his hands and drank.For the taste of earth and iron, water cold and sweet, he gave thanks that summers evening on the stream bank.
And on a lugubrious midnight, in that southern hemisphere, camping by a lake where the stars so bright, they seemed so near, they reflected in the water where he floated on his back, the peaceful vision sustained Godfrey,through happy days hiking the high Heaphy Track. That starlight had the love poured in it, he wrote me of that night sky. As does your poetry , I wrote him in reply.
..It was in the rain that soaked him.In the silent, falling snow that cloaked him, as beneath his purple blanket Godfrey dreamed of summertime. The somber storms of autumn. In the mornings waking early with a memory of lost youth. In the joy he shared in learning to just sit,all that surrounded Godfrey, good times and bad it had the love poured in it.
…MY LUTE- A wooden boat, a gaff-rigged sloop of vintage years. And Godfrey on the dockside, saw painted neatly on her sea scuffed bow, still visible could read her name -MY LUTE. No owner was about, no one below, when he called out, no one to be seen. So Godfrey sat back neath her shade, and thought of the beautiful places, the sailboat My Lute must have been.
Oh, her rigging tuned to hum on key to the angry songs, to the gentle hymns of the sea. The soft strum of surf on pebbled beach, the drums of danger from the reef. No helmsman now as bard to steer her by.Stalwart old ship she told her sea tales to Godfrey.
Told of foggy nights cold in the channel of southern sky hot and clear.To my crew and I , the joy and fear of the unknown were the same. Here I sit consigned to scrap no one left to care but you, a vagabond to care from whence I came, still a proud ship, a living thing, My Lute is still my name.