R
Robert Harrison
Guest
IN SOLITUDE
IN MY OVERLY STUFFED ARMCHAIR I SIT WITH COMFORT,
IN FRONT OF A NEARBY, BRIGHTLY BURNING FIRE, IT’S FLAMES
DANCING ON WALLS, FURNITURE, AND DRAPES, REFLECTING
ITS COMFORTING GLOW FROM A DOZEN PICTURES, HUNG AT
RANDOM UPON PAPERED WALLS, AND FROM CHINA PLATES
THAT HANG FROM WELL-OILED BEAMS. UPON MY LAP, AN OPEN BOOK,
A FAVOURED VOLUME OF PICTURES PAINTED IN WORDS IN TUNEFUL ORDER.
SUCH A ONE, SO TREASURED, THAT TIME WOULD BE EMPTY
WITHOUT IT’S PRESENCE. I, OF SOMEWHAT LOWLY DISPOSITION,
THOUGH A BEGGER I AM NOT AS TO EDUCATION, RESIDE ON
TOMBLIN MOOR, WHERE TREES BOW IN REVERENCE TO THE MIGHTY
WIND, AS IT RIDES ITS DOMAIN ON INVISIBLE STEED. A
DESLOLATE PLACE, TO ONE WHO IS UNACCUSTOMED TO ABIDING IN SUCH
ISOLATION, AS I CHOOSE TO DO. FOR IT IS HERE THAT I CAN
TREASURE THE SOLITUDE CHOSEN, NOT BY CHANCE,
BUT OF CIRCUMSTANCE TO SOME FORGOTTEN TIME,
THE MEMORY HAVING NO FURTHER USE FOR IT’S UNPLEASANT
THOUGHT. SO IT IS WITH BENEVOLENCE AND BLESSEDNES
THAT IN MY PREFERED STATE, I CAN READ AND DREAM
THE DREAMS OF A HAPPY MAN, THE SHACKLES OF THE WORLD NO
LONGER BINDING THIS ONCE UNHAPPY FELLOW TO ITS UNBENDING SOUL.
IN COMFORT OF MIND AND BODY I ESTEEM THE SECLUSION
OFFERED BY TOMBLIN MOOR. SO IT IS WITH MUCH COMFORT
THAT I TURN TO MY FAVOURED BOOK, AND SEE IN WORDS,
TIMES AND SEASONS AND DESTINATIONS; THAT I, IN MY LOWLEY STATION,
NO TRAVELLING COACH COULD I ILL AFFORD TO TAKE. BUT BY WORDS
I DO TRAVEL, FOR WORDS HAVE NO BOUNDS IN THEIR BEAUTEOUS
UNIFORMITY, WHICH INDEED PLEASES THE VERY HEART AND SOUL OF THE
UNLEARNED, TO SEND ONES SENSES TO NEW HIGHTS OF UNEXPECTANCY,
AND IN THEIR EMBRACE OF HEART AND MIND A BLOODLESS BATTLE
IS WON, AS I GIVE MYSELF UP IN JOYOUS SURRENDER TO THE WARM
EMBRACE OF WORDS.
FOR WHAT HAS BEEN BESTOWED, THEN WHERE,
WHERE THEN SHALL GRATITUDE FIND REST?
IN MY OVERLY STUFFED ARMCHAIR I SIT WITH COMFORT,
IN FRONT OF A NEARBY, BRIGHTLY BURNING FIRE, IT’S FLAMES
DANCING ON WALLS, FURNITURE, AND DRAPES, REFLECTING
ITS COMFORTING GLOW FROM A DOZEN PICTURES, HUNG AT
RANDOM UPON PAPERED WALLS, AND FROM CHINA PLATES
THAT HANG FROM WELL-OILED BEAMS. UPON MY LAP, AN OPEN BOOK,
A FAVOURED VOLUME OF PICTURES PAINTED IN WORDS IN TUNEFUL ORDER.
SUCH A ONE, SO TREASURED, THAT TIME WOULD BE EMPTY
WITHOUT IT’S PRESENCE. I, OF SOMEWHAT LOWLY DISPOSITION,
THOUGH A BEGGER I AM NOT AS TO EDUCATION, RESIDE ON
TOMBLIN MOOR, WHERE TREES BOW IN REVERENCE TO THE MIGHTY
WIND, AS IT RIDES ITS DOMAIN ON INVISIBLE STEED. A
DESLOLATE PLACE, TO ONE WHO IS UNACCUSTOMED TO ABIDING IN SUCH
ISOLATION, AS I CHOOSE TO DO. FOR IT IS HERE THAT I CAN
TREASURE THE SOLITUDE CHOSEN, NOT BY CHANCE,
BUT OF CIRCUMSTANCE TO SOME FORGOTTEN TIME,
THE MEMORY HAVING NO FURTHER USE FOR IT’S UNPLEASANT
THOUGHT. SO IT IS WITH BENEVOLENCE AND BLESSEDNES
THAT IN MY PREFERED STATE, I CAN READ AND DREAM
THE DREAMS OF A HAPPY MAN, THE SHACKLES OF THE WORLD NO
LONGER BINDING THIS ONCE UNHAPPY FELLOW TO ITS UNBENDING SOUL.
IN COMFORT OF MIND AND BODY I ESTEEM THE SECLUSION
OFFERED BY TOMBLIN MOOR. SO IT IS WITH MUCH COMFORT
THAT I TURN TO MY FAVOURED BOOK, AND SEE IN WORDS,
TIMES AND SEASONS AND DESTINATIONS; THAT I, IN MY LOWLEY STATION,
NO TRAVELLING COACH COULD I ILL AFFORD TO TAKE. BUT BY WORDS
I DO TRAVEL, FOR WORDS HAVE NO BOUNDS IN THEIR BEAUTEOUS
UNIFORMITY, WHICH INDEED PLEASES THE VERY HEART AND SOUL OF THE
UNLEARNED, TO SEND ONES SENSES TO NEW HIGHTS OF UNEXPECTANCY,
AND IN THEIR EMBRACE OF HEART AND MIND A BLOODLESS BATTLE
IS WON, AS I GIVE MYSELF UP IN JOYOUS SURRENDER TO THE WARM
EMBRACE OF WORDS.
FOR WHAT HAS BEEN BESTOWED, THEN WHERE,
WHERE THEN SHALL GRATITUDE FIND REST?
