There is a chair
And it just sits
Sits in the corner
Aging in its patterned robes
Cosseting memories of the past
And I think how many stories could it tell
Of those who have rested
Rested within its comforting arms
Over the years
The yarns; the anecdotes; the tales
History retold; times gone by
Now abandoned bar the cat
The cat curled up
Asleep in the chair
Cinque port where three lone rivers
At a confluence converge
Where ocean once lapped at her walls
Yet now is a distant surge
Where tunnels ferry back and forth
Beneath senescent streets
Tween Mermaid Inn and The Old Bell
Where smugglers once did meet
Where once the lost embayment
Served the King and this country
With harbour docking merchant boats
Back in antiquity
And now where history lingers for
All those who come on by
This celebrated ancient port
That goes by the name of Rye
Hair; whitening over time
Losing colour as the tints imbue inward
Into the soul; the spirit; the heart
Painting a picture of life
With the tonal brushes of history
In blends of black, brown, blond and red
Revealing the spectral panorama
That stretches out across a lifetime
Rich in unique yet poignant threads
The masterpiece behind the silver greys
Anthropic signatures
Littering history
And biotic clues
Mapping the generations
With traces through time
In a genetic footprint
Leaving indelible tracks
From the then to the now
To follow in the footsteps
In the feet of those from old
Tradition steeped in history
Well trodden boards behold
Cementing in the future
Successes of the past
To bring about a sense of pride
Identities to last
Stability in what has gone
Pre-empting rhythm’s rhyme
Transmission of the old to new
Through passages of time
There’s a wind up on the hill top
A breeze of fortitude
So said, the spirit of an imp
With manners rather rude
For it is told two imps arrived
To Lincoln’s town and heart
With nothing more than impishness
And trouble to impart
For so is said in ancient rune
That when these imps appeared
At Lincoln’s mighty minster gate
They upset bishop’s beard
With all their antics and mischief
It’s said they caused a stir
Disrupting all within their path
With trouble to concur
And even though an angel came
And turned one into stone
It’s said the other slipped her spell
And whistles all alone
Around the minsters outer walls
Up to this very day
In search of Lincoln’s imp who’s there
And cast in rock to stay
Lincoln Imp (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Sat still beside the river bank
Where willow weeps in quietened hush
And tides drift in o’er rocks and stones
A whisper weaves through the Bulrush
A whisper singing in the breeze
That’s heard but now not seen
With tales of life in Roman times
With sounds that once have been
A whisper conceived from babbling brook
Of mighty fortress set nearby
With barracks leading to a bridge;
The garrison’s distant cry
A whisper full of ancient smells
And sights of waiting crowds
Arriving at the guarded gates
To censor those allowed
And from those whispers back in time
Where legacy met emperor’s call
An empire’s northern post remains
In Hadrian’s epic Roman wall
Ginz&Tonic 