The Chapman

 
Chapman. Itinerant salesman related to German Kaufmann  
 
 
 
I leaned the gate  
between the wood and pasture,  
more to think than rest.  
Slow clouds, heavy and grey  
made their journey westward  
a bad sign, cold tomorrow  
you can bet your gloves on that,  
four layers today, five tomorrow!  
Every day, just me and Jack,  
know each stick and rabbit hole;  
miles from anywhere and mobiles.  
Love the pines searching the sky  
vaults random laid in tumult,  
pagan; raw; Druid-land.  
There is a corner hid away  
deep in yew and holly  
stitched with old-man's beard,  
a lady-chapel with no candles,  
dark-deep-secret, where I dare not.  
I hear rumours from the starlings  
rituals to tempt and thrill;  
foolish to believe,  
but the wise old owl rarely comes  
and never says a word. . . . . .  
and he's been here for years;  
that's enough for me.  
 
Whom to ask as I lean the gate  
leaning by the wood and pasture?  
I must into the chapel, subdue my fear  
seek her face but once,  
once will be enough, just once  
I've heard her siren song  
a tongue I do not know, ancient,  
ancient from by-ways,lanes  
where once the chapman  and his horse  
shared hay and rabbit and small beer  
beneath the milky way  bright and clear.  
My fear subdued I shall know a truth  
which will be her choice.  
There are many truths to learn,  
should I accept her word, her wisdom  
leave the yew and holly . . . .  
the sadness of the truth she tells?  
I cannot leave the world,  
(my purse too filled with gold)  
to join the chapman and his horse  
but sit on the leaning gate  
ears closed to siren calls.