Two Erddig poems

 

I wrote this short poem as a warming-up exercise prior to tackling the much longer one that follows.

 

 

SIMON IV

 

 

A conker in a prickly shell,

no phone or post now in this hell,

he rages at a pram wheeled by.

 

Entrepreneurial this Squire is not,

blaming all for his sorry lot.

 

 

Paul Beech

 

 

OH BROTHER…*

 

 

Wherever you are now,

you’ll always be young in my heart,

Brother.

 

You were the lad I larked with,

sparred with,

rode with,

threw snowballs at

in those distant days when proud indeed

was this, our ancestral home,

Erddig.

 

Yes, even as the wild wind blows,

walls cracked,

rainwater sluicing through leaky roofs,

South Wing subsiding with mining below;

Yes, even as I clutch this disabled shotgun

in my cold camp bed,

no one to answer my bell,

this I will allow:

grand times we had as boys, Simon,

when young this century was too.

 

But the squire you made, when came your time,

was a sorry excuse, to be sure.

Guts, gumption and the common touch lacking,

you made instead a curmudgeonly recluse,

venturing forth but occasionally

with gingerbreads in your pocket…

 

Tomorrow, crows by the dozen

will croak with derision

as I sign this place away,

this place of priceless treasures,

of memories and decay –

Erddig,

our ancestral home.

 

A sorry pass, true,

but not entirely down to you –

hardly, with two world wars along the way:

this I will allow.

 

And wherever you are now,

Brother,

young in my heart you will always be.

 

 

Paul Beech

 

* Philip Yorke III to his deceased elder brother Simon Yorke IV: an imaginary address

 

Copyright © Paul Beech 2015