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soul of time
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The tides still reach though hands grow thin,
Oars lie quiet where once they'd been.
From spade to sail, from heart to shore,
A song remains, but boats no more.
Beneath the hearth where old tongues weave,
A tale is born in ember’s sleeve.
The voices rise, the echoes call,
In fireside lore and shadowed hall.
A bard’s bright words, a poet’s strain,
Still whisper through the lashing rain.
Let not their song fade, nor their rhyme—
For stories guard the soul of time.
(Yes, I am trying another
(Yes, I am trying another one.) Your verbal dexterity and skill as a tale-weaver really, really, really commands my respect. This one is a centerpiece of your entire Poetry. It is textbook perfect and deserves to be in every quotation book. It reminds me of a remark Ezra Pound wrote in a letter after T. S, Eliot published The Waste Land in 1922: "About enough to make the rest of us close up shop." That remark definitely applies to this poem, also!
Starward-Led [in Chrismation, Januarius]
Your most valued words come
Your most valued words come at a very good time as a dark season has sojoirned upon the arid poetic land. Many, many thanks
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver