I hope you will allow me a little folly on my return. Every once in a while, since I was in the 8th grade, I think, I have written poetry.

I return to the modern arena with a poem. You will find in it quite a bit of accidental, incidental cribbing, but that is, after all, the point.

The cradle rocks the beat of mother’s heart
The rhythm of the English timpani
The gentle rocking telling of a start
Of language born in ten-part harmony
I hear the telltale heartbeat everyday
It tells THE story; it must have its say.

The singing of the old pentameter
It reaches out to me across the Isle
I am a hearer and a character
In that song-story, wild and clear and mild.
To sleep, to dream perchance it is to hear
The melancholy song; it brings a tear.

I am a mother born of Caedmon’s call.
I chant in old iambs to my children.
They gather round to listen one and all.
They wander off repeating lines of ten
And so across the ages heart to heart
The Shakespeares and the Miltons get their start

And as they take the stages of their time
I sing in the dark shadows of the room.
My voice, they scarcely know that it is mine
But still I sing among the curtains gloom
Do not be sad for me it is the way
It does not stop the lilting cradle‘s sway.

And so from out of bourne and time and space
I’m caught up in the song that birthed the stars
I hear the waves crash louder from that place
I long to hear the moaning of the bar.
Then face to face I’ll hear my great love say
That was a lovely song. You sang my way.

“Copyright 2007 by Cynthia Rollins”

Tomorrow, Lord willing, I will tell you about 3 things that got my goat over the last month.

Thanks for all the kind comments. On the way home from the baseball game tonight (yes, it’s fall ball) I asked Nathaniel if he thought I should just stay on sabbatical. He didn’t answer which is his way but it was nice to come home and find the comments.

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