I found two wonderful things on the internet, and tho' I wanted to be original and post my own efforts I could not pass these by.
I have been unable to reach the owners of these to clear the copyrights, but I am hoping that since this is just a blog for sharing and with no commercial worth, (ha! would that it were ) I will give credit to the owners with praise for their good taste and their part in bringing beauty to this world and promise to remove them if they feel it violates their trust.
AN OCTOBER TREE
What more is there to say?
Poem in October
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.
Dylan Thomas, “Poem in October” from The Poems of Dylan Thomas. Used by permission of David Higham Associates, London as agents for the Trustees of the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas
Source: Poetry (February 1945).
I have left these permission lines to give credit where credit is due though it is not true that permission was given to me, but to the owners of Poetry . QV
Commentary by Flamblogger
It is his birthday. The turning of thirty is a time for reflection.
He rises early and walks along the shore line, breathing in the long familiar sights and sounds of the harbor. A moment of nostalgia overwhelms him. The fishing nets are hung over the walls as usual, and the surge of the tide sucks at the mussels. Along the shoreline, the herons tall, thin and still, preside like priests who are hearing the prayers of the water. The call of the seagulls and rooks and the knocking of the wooden sail boats, side by side in the tide all remind him of how everything is as it has always been.
Yet he was turning thirty.
His walk takes him from the sea shore through the lanes and woods with the weather as changeable as the views. The song birds urge him on up the hill to the patch of sunshine on its brow. In the distance he hears the rain and wind among the leaves of the trees now below him. He watches the misty rain drifting over the harbor. The town church with it spires is barely recognizable through the passing shower except to look like a looming snail.
Here beyond the edge of town he had thought to while away his birthday, dreaming of his days as a child with his mother. They were fruit-filled days of summer spent with a mother who is now no more. These thoughts of past happy times move him to tears just as he had wept at her loss then. Now those days are gone too.
His nostalgia returns. As a Welshman, he is reminded of the parables he once heard in chapel. On reflection his life seems to him to be a parable. The boy who once reveled in the woods, the river, and the sea, still remembers the 'summer of the dead'. Yet he remembers that even with this sorrow in his heart he had whispered then of the joy that he had found in all around him. So even today, that joy lifts his soul.
Now by noon-time he understands that that which surrounds him is still the same as when he was a child, but some things change as does the weather. The years will move on. The town below, wreathed in scarlet leaves readying for winter reminds him of his coming year. The seasons change, that is inevitable. The year ahead is already on its way. Everything else will still be here next year. Yet knowing how change comes, his deep desire is that he will not have changed and would still hold these truths in his heart.
This is my contribution to ABC Wednesday, the extra-Ordinary project headed by Mrs. Nesbitt and her wonderful team as we head into the home stretch of our ninth round. Please click HERE to see more Out Of the Ordinary posts for the letter 'O'