Listen to the Walls Where Stories Talk
Sunlight whispers in eaves, hugged by leaves. Wrapped in green.
Skylarks whistle to their Juliets. Who walk with eyes
turned high, upon the blue sky.
In this place, stars echo and stay
in cotton shapes on blue paint. They swirl down
the wave of tree top hands.
Sunlight walks through stones, placed row by row. Cut with roots.
Ants trek for their desert alchemist. Somewhere in the gold strands
which fall on the grace of a feather upon the pillars of the earth.
In this place, footsteps echo and stay
in dust shapes on bones. An archaeology of people down
the passage. It stretches the length of comet tails.
Sunlight wishes in the seasons, showed by cold wood and stone. Still stood, still.
Around wheels which roll with tide and moon. From new, to old,
to light, to dark, the sentinels of age sit, wait for nature. To come back from hills far away.
In this place, talk of stories lives within walls. Comes on every echo, footstep, call. Skylark and ant, Juliet and Romeo. Here speak stories made for wanderers.
ARReynolds 2017
(Photo taken at the Hampstead Pergola, 2016, Hampstead Hill)
