To London, To London - to celebrate the birthing of my life - in grand style and wonderment.
In London, the gates are high and wide, strong and stately - mostly closed.
The gates to my hopes and dreams, though, are high and wide but flung open for me to wander through to my heart's content. A scribbler from way back, I am prone to pen poetic notions when I get fidgety and dismayed. So I write about what on my mind - ageing and other aggravations. The rhythmic feel of words poring through my brain (that just turned seventy as well) soothes away the alarming news that I am now considered golden - part of the graying of America, over-the-hill. as some say. Nonsense, I ponder as I readjust my glasses to get another glimpse of Big Ben. I'm fairly certain but I feel he smiled back at me. This year I notice things like high closed gates and the ever-ticking eternal clocks. I wonder if the Pearly Gates will be as massive as the Brits'.
Some days
I wander through cavernous
art museums
and sit at the feet of masterful artists and
marvel at their gifts.
I snap photos of most pieces but
pull out my sketch pad when
I come to Matisse and his at-home pictures.
No bother that the day is dark and gloomy; for me it is a light-bright banner day - I am thrilled to travel to London, mostly because I am there to visit my youngest daughter and her growing family. Rain trickles down, soft and kind; I close my umbrella to allow the cool water to run down my cheeks -much better than hot tears I think.
Verse after verse I toss words to the page and swirl little drawings between lines. They seem to come from as much my imagination as my intake of the majestic architecture of this grand Lady called London. Rich with history, she has withstood the grind of time, war and fire. She's rebuilt, renewed herself, and she's kept her dignity despite the threats against her. I like that!
The hours click away and I taxi by royal castles and cathedrals, monuments and museums and I wonder - do queens
and princes and princesses
really have blue blood and why must I bow to
them if I were ever invited to tea with the queen
and her entourage of stoic folk who speak properly
and remain keenly aware of their heritage and their crowning duties?
"Shall I supply the cakes and crumpets for our tea party?"
I asked my princess-like granddaughters who live in the heart of London town.
"Yes," they reply as they prepare tea in their tiny plastic pots.
We don't feel the need to bow to one another -
we do hug and hold hands, though.
No comments:
Post a Comment