A Former Great Nations Squandered Wealth I

Swept up into piles; everywhere Abouts; in collected heaps all Around. It is almost as if the drab Streets were strewn with the Precious wealth of King Solomon's Gold! How it seems so far back, when, at Springs nagging behest, those Cautious tips, encouraged by Warming beguilement of new winds, Gingerly unwound To reveal those never-before-seen Leaves; But their sap, like my zest, has Run dry; Shuffling disconsolately to and fro As those of us, that, in our Unnoticed maudulin, have grown Steadily more old:- As if Hardrada's slain warriors, Covered by their cracked shields, Lifeless and fallen they lie. A flock of racquous Starlings, Scuttering downwards, noisily Alight On the stripped branchs of a Diminished and abject tree; Although a sizeable band, growing Daily, hardly a paused murmuration Dropped from flight... Now I know another Autumn is Nearly done. I note the resounding emptiness of The wide avenue compares favorably With the compressed and leaden sky; The sudden intervention of an Appealing thought, and it occurrs To me, That, if I were as swift as Fleet-footed Leonidas then maybe I too, this desperate day, Could outstrip the retreating Shadows of this disconsolate Sun? Alas...I am aging with every Approaching Winter, pattern Baldness spreading across my Thinning crown; A body can feel a cold dampness in This sort of air... Then - an involuntary shiver! Perhaps unwelcomed memories of Many a wasted year... Thinks I with a rueful frown; In the minds eye a glimpse Of the ferocious Wolf slipping Quietly through the half-open gate - Here he once roamed in all his Perfect savagery! And, standing admidst the vestiges Of a former great nations Squandered wealth, to which many sentimental hearts still Adhere, To wonder what the patient Saxon Should make at the sight of such Frenzied lameness... The ruination of this his once Untamed and wild estate? That ancient Saxon full knew. He knew of cruel hardship, of all Essential things that so engaged Him, His pressing needs, his Thanes Daily bread; Though of heady aspirations...he Had but few. He knew of the devastaing blight Of sweltering drought, He knew of the tipped rivers Flooding swell; But the old Saxon? ...he just Re-doubled his efforts - and took it Manfully on the chin! For when the hardy Saxon undertook To do a job it would usually happen That he did it well. And what of his countless, long since Ignored, secluded and wooded dells, His dusky, hollowed glades? Deep inside: trapped sunlight still Floating liken a glassed surface Upon a pond; Once, therein, that Saxons All-consuming hours taken up by the Resounding crunch of the ever eager Blade! And were it truly ever was this Humongous supposed repository For Englands "Green Man"? Ditto For the fabled Unicorn recorded By the minstral balladeer's Luteing song; Ancient Greeks did say that only The gentle and pensive maiden Had the power to coax such a Timid beast: one of many wild Wraiths, emblazoned on many a regal Shield, that do unashamedly beguile Throughout our legendary history! Our mundane present now a sad Parody of melancholic destitution; As if a Summer laid to rest...and, Thus, finally, we reluctantly Grieve. The dismal plink, plink, plinks Of trickling water dripping into The roadside drain; If that stoic Saxon had any woes He would have no time to lend to Idle moments wasted dawdling Among dead leaves. Where now Wodan, his many other Gods? His charioteering tales and Warring stories not even Half-forgotten memories that only Befuddled minds of lunatics might Mutter. How resplendant the rusting gasworks Appears, as, behind her looming tanks, Sol's disintegrating orb wearily Slinks; Who would deny, at such instants, Much dimming beauty can be found... Even inside a crowded towns huddled Clutter. The low streetlamps, mounted like Matt pearls, beginning, cautiously, To reignite; Predictably this awakens some Roosting birds...some of which, Dutifully, begin to sing. A muddled obliqueness, inherent On varying angles, converging On the temporary juxtapositions Invented by the electric bulbs Deceitful light; And although I have never felt much Of a compulsion towards sentimental Reminiscing, Or to seek solace in the comforting Familiarity of a mothers Romantic recollections, to which we All sometimes cling, I grope like a blind man...as if Reaching out into the foaming Darkness intent on finding Something essentially quintessential That I instinctively sense is so Oddly missing. To be continued...