And Still I Drive - Part Two
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
Into Ochs valley, through the Vale of White Horse...prancing
besides a Dragons Hill;
It was here that a Roundhead - did a Royalist Cavaliers blood in
Oxons streets so spill!
Where Great Alfred strove to drive out the Dane and his Law;
And blazing fires were lit to roar in the open grates of Christ churchs
Great Hall.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not deny.
Along the ever stretching A34 littered with the slaughtered carcasses of the
Daily score;
Over Royal Berkshires balding heights, where from every bush
And every turn,
Reflecting back from my glowing headlights
Sharp green piercing eyes - cunning Red fox that so discerns.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Between the clearing acres of ten thousand gnarled boughs
That once did so ably fashion for great Windsors mighty beams.
Steering along Newburys pass where Civil war was played out thrice
Against the brow:
Same old crowd - bloody encounters and fisticuffs - same age old
Greed driven schemes!
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
At the approaching roundabout i must begin to slow -
First exit left - M40 - and steadily onward i accelerate to go;
For i have the Immortal Bards Warwickshire set within my determined mind -
My own forlorn loves hopes...lost...now far distant...long gone behind.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Wide motorways with boastful, imposing overhead gantry signs:
Grandly heralding the names of "just up ahead" places
Boldly framed upon blue panels within white trim designs,
Straddling wide lanes - huge and brightly lit,
Prompt and remind the tourist of the "sights" they must surely visit.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not lie.
Here the reflective waters of Shakespeares Avon still peacefully flow
That pushed upon the old mills rustic wheels so many forgotten years ago.
Where, carting slowly, the Hathaways would come for flour, or so it was said,
To bring back unto Newlands farm to bake and offer prayers
For their daily bread.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
Pittering hail blows across my glass windscreen - the swinging rhythmatic blade
sweeping it clean;
And staring, as if caught in a trance, my mind casts back
To that last meal we ate - you on the settle - i by the exposed and varnished
Brick stack;
In your warm, comfy little lounge loudly arguing back and forth over this and that!
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
Unfurling before me the M6 toll that impedes my progress upon this hour
So late,
As queuing, my whirling thoughts drift again to the moment, where in silence,
I had quietly stood at your little open gate:
Incandescent with cruel stabbing words you did me so violently berate;
Crashing door slamming tightly shut - sealed now upon a doomed forgone fate!
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not deny.
The barrier rises as once again the blizzard contrives...
Whereupon, engaging the gears and steadily revving the engine,
I Resume the drive;
Speeding towards Staffordshires potteries of ceramic plates:
Pattern ware for commoner, landed gentry, Lords and Ladies,
And lofty estates.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
The monumental journey of one hundred leagues is nearly all but done,
The resolute chimneys and Bottle kilns i will soon outrun.
For now a sailing Moon begins to shallow and fade -
Whilst gathering together her skirts -
A final encore before daintily retiring from centre stage.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But i know not why.
Hesitant grey light in the wings steps aside bleak and rugged tors;
Dawns waking orchestral chorus prepares to perform sweet clarion chords;
Beacons that coursed constant along my long troubled way,
Soon to be gradually extinguished at the onset of another slowly waking
Cheshire day.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars should not cry. (For men do not cry! Do they?)
The painted black and white metal railings that secure the pastoral herds
Of the shire
Are adorned with the icicles and hard frost from a fierce biting ire;
And as Moonlights diminished beams disappear behind thick drawing drapes
- Finally drawn -
Back in the land of my fathers fathers to which i am forever inextricably sworn!!
Forgive me, Julia!!
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