PILSDEN PEN

PILSDEN PEN

A grey, much weathered, geometric stone,

Stands sentry on this ancient fortress hill.

Breathless still, 

I touch the cold, hard, sparkling granite obelisk

With trembling hand

To share its secrets. 

As morning mists disperse,

A panoramic view unfolds.

From up here on the ramparts

I can see the world.

And worse…

Below;

Hidden in the valleys;

The rivers and streams

Of conspiring humanity

Form deep, murky pools of lies and deceit.

Plotting…waiting.

Whirlpools of destruction

Thunder and rage in dark canyons,

Until, spent and exhausted,

Their waters trickle serenely   

Into sparkling, shallow rapids;

Streams with gentle flow,

Meandering through tranquil meadows.

Where overhanging boughs

Whisper their approval in the breeze.

Restless, transient, hope.

Uneasy calm.

Until the next disturbance of the status quo.

An endless progression

Of scheming mortal machinations and intrigue.

Onward to the oceans of the great unknown.

Washed back and forth

On tides of destiny and fate.

Events...

Devoured eventually in time and substance

As of small consequence.

No matter how great the scale of upheaval,

Suffering, sorrow and despair.

Thrown back into the clouds

To be reborn in clearer air.

But here, on PILSDEN PEN

I also see the beauty of the world below;

The order in the chaos.

The magical music of human genius

Is loudest in the silence of this place.

The sun, and wind caress my face.

And deep within my soul

I feel the spirits of the past.

Our ancestors who lived and died their short, hard, lives

On this bleak summit;

Two thousand and more years ago.

The reason why,

From here upon this elevated fortress high.

I can stare and wonder at the meaning of it all.

The universe beyond the stars.

Our destiny.

To go much higher;  

Look down at what’s beneath from loftier heights.

And try our hardest not to fall.

© Harry Hunt 2013