The Chapman

 
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 the by-ways, the 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 I know.
( my purse too filled with gold )
to join the chapman and his horse
but sit on the leaning gate
my ears closed to siren calls.