It's World Poetry Day! To mark today I am releasing a poem that has two underlying themes (most poetry is layered and symbolic). The most obvious theme is the historical event that has played a huge part in the identity of Plymouth and that is the lighting of the beacons that alerted Drake to the arrival of The Spanish Armada. The underlying theme is Spring. The lights stand for the reawakening of the sun and daylight growing longer once again (yesterday was the Spring equinox for those who were unaware). The closest beacon to me is in Stoke Village, and is located in Block House Park. It is a wonderful site if you ever get the chance to go up there. From the walled area of where the old beacon used to sit, you can see Dartmoor, Plymouth Sound, Mt Edgcumbe and even on a clear day, Kit Hill in Cornwall.
A beautiful spot in our city that is not only dowsed in history but quite an incredible location to see in the arrival of a much needed season. Happy World Poetry Day.
I hope you enjoy this piece.
A beautiful spot in our city that is not only dowsed in history but quite an incredible location to see in the arrival of a much needed season. Happy World Poetry Day.
I hope you enjoy this piece.
The Beacon
Cold weathered skin
retracts,
wants to pull away
as the fiery sparks
collide with flesh
but this hand doesn't care,
it has a job to do.
Stoke,
the hand must poke,
make the fires burn
harder and
higher,
sire smoke,
a newborn birthed from pyre.
if message is to be seen,
gleam and glint of ember
must travel over trembling estuary,
cross dusty moor and tattered cliff
so that the sailors waiting
will
catch the drift...
Fleet is nigh
and this beacon in night's sky
is the only way
to alert,
command the charge,
fight,
so burn dancing embers
burn long and
cast your entrancing light.
When spotted,
another is lit,
sent heaven bound,
a rift,
no need to shout,
sound could not travel fast enough anyway,
light is the chosen steed,
a steed as fast as a furious fist
uppercutting its way up the coast,
igniting,
each beacon a sun upon the shore,
signalling,
the call to war.
And as they float like melodic note
into the English air,
flare,
contagious,
erupts in stages
sending warning to mooring
and flagging up
that they have come.
Dominoes blaze,
you flaming glory!
The beginning of such
a momentous story,
rage on little fires,
higher and
harder,
your message received,
here cometh
The Armada.
retracts,
wants to pull away
as the fiery sparks
collide with flesh
but this hand doesn't care,
it has a job to do.
Stoke,
the hand must poke,
make the fires burn
harder and
higher,
sire smoke,
a newborn birthed from pyre.
if message is to be seen,
gleam and glint of ember
must travel over trembling estuary,
cross dusty moor and tattered cliff
so that the sailors waiting
will
catch the drift...
Fleet is nigh
and this beacon in night's sky
is the only way
to alert,
command the charge,
fight,
so burn dancing embers
burn long and
cast your entrancing light.
When spotted,
another is lit,
sent heaven bound,
a rift,
no need to shout,
sound could not travel fast enough anyway,
light is the chosen steed,
a steed as fast as a furious fist
uppercutting its way up the coast,
igniting,
each beacon a sun upon the shore,
signalling,
the call to war.
And as they float like melodic note
into the English air,
flare,
contagious,
erupts in stages
sending warning to mooring
and flagging up
that they have come.
Dominoes blaze,
you flaming glory!
The beginning of such
a momentous story,
rage on little fires,
higher and
harder,
your message received,
here cometh
The Armada.