The Turning of the Seasons, by Fiona Lloyd

Those of you who read my post last month may remember I wrote about a poem I had started at Scargill in early June. Well, it’s taken me longer than I thought (largely due to my tweaking addiction) but it’s finally finished...just in time for this month’s blog.

I should point out that the visit referred to in the poem was my first trip to Scargill, almost five years ago. I’d also like to acknowledge Wilfred Owen’s poem, Strange Meeting, which inspired my first line and got me going.

Anyway, here goes:

The Turning of the Seasons

                       

From escalating darkness I escaped,

And took the road that wove through sculpted vales;

Where hamlets carved from honeyed Yorkshire stone

Gave way to lofty crags and soaring fells.

Fragmented rays of amber kissed the fields:

A verdant quilt – criss-crossed with dry-stone walls –

Whose supple folds ran rippling down the slopes

And flanked the bustling Wharfe within its course.

Late summer’s lavish reign was evident

In softly shimmering streams and hedgerows bright

With berries; while above a shaded copse,

A kestrel hovered, etched against the sky.

Yet here and there the stately sycamores

Wore freshly-furnished cloaks of red and gold.

They bowed and swayed before the stiffening breeze,

As autumn waited, watchful, in the wood.

The turning of the seasons cruelly stirred

A closely-guarded anguish in my soul.

The looming threat of winter’s icy grasp

Wrought deepening despair as grief unfurled.

I journeyed on, down tightly twisting lanes,

And found a rank of pine-trees, proud and tall.

Their stern façade concealed a sprawling house

Set close against the contours of the hill.

And so I came at last to Scargill’s door,

And hesitantly followed on behind

The band of cheerful pilgrims on the stairs,

Ascending to the chapel overhead.

We entered to a space infused with light:

It seemed a thousand votives flamed and shone.

Celestial music tumbled all about,

As reverent flutes joined sweeping strings in song.

I heard no voice, yet whisperings of grace

Spoke solace there, amidst the glimmering;

And hope – that had lain crushed in sorrow’s grip –

Afforded me a glimpse of endless spring.

                        

Fiona Lloyd works part-time as a music teacher, and serves on the worship leading team at her local church. Fiona self-published a violin tutor book in 2013 and blogs at www.fjlloyd.wordpress.com. You can find her on Twitter at @FionaJLloyd. Fiona is vice-chair of ACW and is married with three grown-up children.