Past Time

 

We drove along the lanes that Wordsworth walked

Past lakes whipped into white tipped waves,

Past fields over which he strode for love,

Past gift shops, flower shops, tea shops.

Past bookshops selling the collected works.

Past his home, his other home and hers.

Then to Dove Cottage and an obligatory tour,

To see the things he lived with,

To hear the sound of creaking beams he heard.

To smell the plaster, feel the wooden floor.

To see a pen he wrote with

And a letter written at this desk.

 

But in it all no sign of him

Just spores left in his wake

He has gone, heaved anchor sailed off

To find Arcadia.

 

Arrived home past nine,

Past time collating memories.

Then found him lurking in a poem.

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