In the year that passed between Godfrey’s ‘Summer of poetic Infamy” and our meeting at the Valley River Wurzel Hurl, I know little of his travels. He had been on the News, and interviewed by the local papers, and requested to leave town. Ginger Alphonse and Lonewolf still live in her little house of toilets, Larry the Free Advice Wino is gone, most everyone else dispersed.
Many claimed to have met Godfrey, or provided the beets that were to help set him free, But those who were there never forgot him, my job was to acknowledge them all, myth, tale, yarn, childhood memory, like Gingers’ toilets, they all had their place in the great circle round.
This one came from a retired couple, they lived in quiet companionship in a cottage where river met sea. The man, known locally as “‘The Digger’,for he was an expert gardener, his partner worked the soil to, she had a vast knowledge of healing herbs, she was a wonderful artist, but their few visitors rarely saw her work. Their children grown and gone, the well traveled pair cherished the 16 year old Siamese cat- usually found on the back of the couch looking out the window to the beach, Biscuit the cat missed nothing
It was one of the Fall evenings that the furnace kicked in, chilly, but not yet damp as a seal’s nose as the digger was fond of observing. The woman, joining the ever curious cat on the couch watched as a vagabond made his way down the track beyond the garden fence, dissapearing over a dune. She noted his kilt, gumboots and odd suitcase/backpack combination. An odd sight so far from town she thought, but harmless enough looking, we will check on him in the morning she told the still staring cat..
..FREE FROM THE CITY WAS GODFREY- It is always wonderful to feel the campfires heat. Feel it warm your hands and face. Sit back and clear your mind, dry your feet. Stoke the fire, put the billy-pot on. You’ve been alone in the canyon too long.
Water boiling now, throw the tea leaves in. Autumn evening, scent of low tide, evensong.You’ve been alone in the canyon too long. Rummage in your pack for biscuits, pour the smoky, rich, dark tea. Sit back against the driftwood log, looking out to sea.
The fire is the storyteller tonight, it’s words to you belong. You’ve been alone in the canyon too long. You have left behind the grimy pavement, you have left the man- created noise. You have left the ones you have loved, you shared their grief, their joys.
You carry with you the story and song. You were alone in the canyon, the big city canyon, you were alone in the canyon too long.
.. It was the Siamese led the way next morning, as bearing carrot muffins the kindly trio crossed the dune to where the vagabond had camped. Of the hobo there was no trace, save some threads of plaid wool,hanging dew- damp from the driftwood log and this poem, the first random poem he would leave.
Here is a poem,thank you from Godfrey, and thank you from Worzel for sending it to me.