Blue Lake, St. Bathans
Blasted ground, exposed silt
piled, blanched, weathered bone.
Under our feet, mealy grit's
blood-and-bone.
The diggings give back
pale beauty, offer grass
and air. A bird sings.
We walk the paths,
soak in what time
it has taken. Say, "Hi,"
to two tourists, "Lovely
isn't it?" they say.
We have to agree.
It is that calm after the fact.
The silence of voices
that have died
away and gold-diggers
who have long gone.
You say you thought
the hotel cleaner greeted
the ghost. Turns out
it was a dog asleep
under the bench.
But the ghosts are there
all right, in the machinery
of pale facings, tangled
in lime light
under twisted water.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
5 comments:
I have been there, many years ago now, and this poem captures the place as I remember it beautifully.
Beautiful :-)
Ah, glad you've brought a poem (lovely) to Tuesday. It's time I visited St Bathans for the first time in...40? years.
Thank you for sharing this haunting poem with us, Kay.
St. Bathan's (population 6? 7?) is a strange, surreal place, isn't it... it seems to be inhabited as much by the past as the present; if not more. Your lines 'But the ghosts are there all right, in the machinery of pale facings, tangled in lime light under twisted water... say it all.
L, C x
Tim - Thanks, I found it to be an affecting place.
Agnes - Thank you :)
Penelope - Yes! You SO should visit!
Claire - Thanks. We have promised ourselves a re-visit in the winter.
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