The Day We Walked To Glastonbury
That day we followed the ancient byway
that wound round the old farm house,
past the new and on sun drenched
towards the river Brue.
You and I wandered slow,
whilst summer's promise
swooped down low
over green level pastures
in which new lambs bleated.
Passing incidental hedgerow trees
full of bird song, growing free
along the drove,
we lingered at the grassy edge
where orange tipped
peacock eyed butterflies danced.
Occasionally we glanced
towards the sacred tor to mark our way.
Meandering talk and country lanes
led to Arthur’s court yard,
in the Vale of Avalon.
Where, to the sound of the Buddhist's Om
I walked the healing pool,
held by a gentle hand.
You waited beneath a budding tree
opposite the lion’s mouth
kept company by a brambling.
I had one too in branches high above,
whilst my bare feet
were rubbed, with love and
unscented oil.
I returned to sit beside you
and with easy talk you told
me of your brambling.
That was the day of the apple blossom drop.
As we sat together side by side
on that bench in the garden of the chalice well
with warming eyes you turned to me
as clouds of apple blossom fell
smiled, and said “I organised that just for you”.
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