Slow dance the hours

I never really understood boredom.  So I have tried to write about it.

Slow dance the hours

Slow dance the hours
The haze of the days
The seconds and minutes that loll and that laze.

The progress that cowers
And ever delays,
With seconds and minutes all lost in a haze.

Now stuck in this mill
And treading out time,
Like waiting for old bells that seem not to chime.

The trace of the powers
That preys in a maze,
Of seconds and minutes that make all the days.

Slow dance the hours
The daze of the ways
That seconds and minutes all fade to a haze.

Slow draining the will
To well past your prime,
When sapped of all strength then you sink in the slime.

©Trevor Morgan, 2017

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The dream in Priddy Ring

Railway waiting rooms remind me of this first poem.  Waiting can be a chore.  I tend to nod off into a sort of half sleep and dream though part of me is awake.  I guess this is my alternative to boredom!
I imagined this dream of a soldier asleep in Priddy Ring during the retreat from Chippenham in the winter of 878AD.  I wrote it down on a train journey home.

 

The lone soldier at Priddy Ring

The circle of stones on the moor
Dripped wet with the drizzling rain.
It seemed like he’d been here before
In ways that he could not explain.

The tingle he felt on his head
As his heart now, it started to race.
Aware here of souls of the dead,
His blood now was drained from his face

The Dead seemed about everywhere.
The future seemed almost to speak.
The cold clammy feel of the air,
Made him feel as though he was weak.

He stopped and he knelt on the ground,
Embracing some soul who seemed wan.
He uttered an eerie low sound,
And all in a trice he was gone.

Gone out from that dreary wet day,
No longer alone in the rain,
The clear sky was blue and not grey.
All sorrow was gone from his brain.

The long dead they danced in the ring,
Though few seemed to see him stood there.
The stones in the henge seemed to sing,
Sweet perfumes now scented the air.

There seemed a strange joy in his mind,
The lives of these souls had been good.
Nowhere in this world would he find
Such joys as here where he stood.

That soul he embraced spoke to him,
She’d lived in an age long ago.
She told him his lot might be grim,
Because of the ravening foe.

“In your time you’ll be welcome back here
When your soul has gone unto Grace,
But for now you’ve no need to fear,
Be touched by the joy of this place”

The sun in the sky seemed to turn,
Reversing its course in the sky!
To her time they seemed to return,
Surrounded by green fields of rye.

She showed him that henge in the past,
She showed him the view from up there,
She showed him expanses so vast,
Her knowledge was his now to share.

He learned all the lay of the land,
He knew of each path and each stream…
He awoke with his face on his hand;
Had her soul just been a strange dream?

The circle of stones on the moor
Were dry and there was now no rain.
They weren’t like they had been before
And his soul was now cleansed of pain.

This one man returned to his king,
To face the grim battle ahead
And soon with those souls he would sing,
For quite soon he too would be dead.

Then he danced up there on the moor
With the souls of the happy, not wan,
He’s melded with those passed before
Stones glint neath the sun as it shone.

 

The Ghostly Reel

The ghost and man
They danced about,
They danced a raunchy reel.
So who can say what’s in God’s plan,
Or know what God might feel.

The man and ghost
With Heavenly host,
They danced that day away.
For providence that is divine
Was there upon display.

The dance slowed down
All things must end,
Day ends with soft twilight.
Sleep caught the man he seemed to frown.
Then slept right through that night.

The sun arose
The dream was lost
Night ends with break of day
The brand new day would soon disclose
How strange may be God’s way

From the “Tale of the glistening lights”