and everywhere you cared to ramble,
there stood a Garden no digger touched,
nor black tarmacked road, nor death-dark mill.
If you use reason, you will be deceived
into thinking it mere childish myth.
But open your heart and you will sense:
though long overgrown, it still endures.
I once met a fair maid along the lane,
who revealed to me her dreamtime name.
Eugenie guided me by the hand,
and ushered me through a secret door.
In a trice I left this sad world behind
and saw in awe and great surprise,
that what we believe as real and true
is a clockwork nightmare fantasy.
We think that we live and think that we love,
though really we subsist in slumber,
while the birds and bees and chestnut trees,
here, set my heart all a-flutter.
Arcadia’s not a place to visit:
like water to fish, we all swim in it.
And though in essence it’s hidden deep
It unveils to folk who truly seek it.
Though back now in this materialist world,
as I pass along a dirt alleyway
I catch the scent of a blossoming rose,
and it carries me back to Arcady.
Just there! On the breeze I hear lilting tune,
and in mind’s eye see a sacred grove,
where all the joyful folk are gathered,
and I join the “Wassail!” and sing along.
There she stands waiting, dearest Eugenie,
smile on her lips and toss of red hair.
Full of heart, I hasten toward her
and, embracing, we’re carried back there.
We sing and we dance and we lay on hands,
life’s miseries and woes a-healing.
In the warmth and glow of the campfire:
here in Remembrance, we make our home.
~ ET. Yorkshire, England, © Thursday 3 September 2020.
Image: The Course of Empire: The Arcadian or Pastoral State.
Artist: Thomas Cole (1801–1848).
Image source: Wikimedia Commons.
Image licence: Public domain.
