Raffy’s Nap


Laid under trees beside the field above Timberscombe village

where the shadow is cool, and my mother’s jacket, spread on dry leaves,

protects my skin, I sleep in the heat of a late spring morning in England.

The breeze ripples with sounds of lute and flute while grunts of rams

and grulls of ewes, call to lambs that breach the keep in the field above me

and droning bees hum under roasting sun beside budding archeologists.

My sleep – so deep – the edges of now and then cross in silent patterns,

while pottery shards, chips of flint and smelted ore weave history into present

and now into past; a dream that never ends even as I stir and wake

and rise to the ancient hill fort and the school of children upon it.

Curious, they scratch and dig, some painted with blue, the color of woad, in swirls

upon their cheeks, and I rise in surprise when an iron age remnant hidden from sun

for two thousand, seven hundred years, is placed in my infant hand.

“Look,” I tell them, “a pebble.”

 

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11 Comments

Filed under Non-Fiction, Poetry, Uncategorized

11 responses to “Raffy’s Nap

  1. Magda

    This poem took me to my childhood, I was even able to smell the nature…

    • We all need to return to our childhood at times – those moments of pure innocence where we learn from bottom-up new experiences, rather than adult’s top-down filtering, and motivated purely from curiosity, not the desire to impress or to fulfill duty and expectations.

  2. You’re back. Lovely. I was napping on the front porch just the other day. The grulls of ewes…I like that. Thanks for this one.

    • Well done, Sue! I figured it would take a writer to discover the word ‘grulls’. I confess, it’s not a real word; at least I don’t think it ever was, but it is now – for me, at least. I couldn’t find a sound-word that brought out the voices of sheep, with each ewe, lamb and ram distinct from all the others, and almost human. So I closed my eyes and listened, and they seemed not to be saying “Baaahhh,” but “Grull,” which starts at the back of the throat in a gutteral cavern, damp with phlegm and extended in length for carrying long distance over hills and down valleys. Unlike nursery rhyme ewes who sing nasal Baaahs, grulling ewes have character, and they shape the hillsides with their presence.
      Sorry for the long silence. I’ve been down with flu, but feeling better so hope to get back in the word-saddle soon. Thanks for not giving up on me.

  3. Wonderful story…and it’s true! What a lucky child.

    Pearl

  4. lovely portrayal of nature of kids.
    peaceful moment for the sleeping child.
    Happy Monday!

  5. Cindy, this took me back in time… I so wish we remained children (mainly innocent) all our lives! WE would have been much happier individuals…don’t you think? Sometimes, I wonder, how useful was it, making us “smarter” and more “mature” as we grew older? Is it any use at all? Look at what we’ve done with all this smartness and maturity… waged wars all over the place! How ironic is that!!

    A brilliant poem as ever, Cindy! Thank you…
    You have a way of teaching us / reminding us of some of most important lessons of life…
    Take care, my friend.. and thank you for sharing this beautiful poem with poetry potluck… we really appreciate you taking the time to link this up, despite the recent events.. Write on, dear friend…

  6. Thanks Kavita, especially for taking the time to read and enjoy as well as respond. You and Amanda are doing a super job.

  7. How are you?
    Thanks for sharing your smart poetry work with us..
    Hope to see you next Monday..

    your work inspires,
    your poetry rocks,
    your support is lovely,
    your words touches…..

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