Glastonbury Tor
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The Glastonbury Tor surrounded by rubble and more.
Where dandelions bend round
roots firmly in the ground
waving wind sound.
Footsteps creep upon the mound,
where Englishman’s pilgrimage journey found.
A dying age of heritage told
- in the passing of a year -
where industrial construction locks icey-cold.
The long path ahead unfold,
a journey to continue.
For the future you must always wait,
the knocking at the door,
The Iron Gate.
He’ll skip and turn,
scurry and turn,
man’s hour of promise,
the wise lesson to learn.
The future will one day turn to the past.
Wait for dreams. Force of a hammer.
Clip of a peg. Wounded persistence of man’s walking leg.
Toil, climb, earth’s decent.
A reason for being,
The pilgrimage meant.
© David J Constable, 2008
