On walls of cave in life gone by, stick dipped in last meals blood,
I daubed the walls with drawings of the things I understood.
A running dear, a hand held spear, me hiding by a tree,
then carrying aloft the kill we’d eaten for our tea!
A chisel and a hammer clashed as I chipped out my name
above the door where I now worked, a sculpture of some fame.
Gravestones in rhyme, I’d served my time apprenticed to my trade,
statues and busts now served my lust as they were better paid.
On parchment scroll, I played my role with feather for a quill
my words recalled the deeds of all, and even their last will.
But parchment brushed in coloured dyes I found much to my gain
as portraits falling from my brush assured the buyer’s fame.
But lifetimes pass and all evolve and now with ink and pen
once again I write down thoughts, the cycle starts again.
As rhyme unfolds from depths untold, once more I find my hand
must serve the purpose born in me that centuries have planned.
I blame the blood of hunters kill, the stone the chisel shaped
the records on the parchment scroll that quill and ink had scraped,
I blame the memories of old that kindle my desire
igniting passions buried deep to spew forth poet’s fire.
Ivor G Davies