More poetry, I'm afraid

I try not to think too deeply about poetry. That kind of thing can get you into trouble. But somewhere in one of my notebooks lurks this explanation of why it's so powerful.

Poetry bottles life: the confusion, the ambiguity, the playfulness, the multisensory onslaught that amounts to human experience.

So here goes.

Corfe

From the hill where Cromwell's cannon
Tore into your stately stone
We sit - as sweaty conquerors
Half cursing, half in awe
At your stoic, upright form:
Weathered, but not beaten
Fallen, but not down
Trodden, but not yet into dust.

Still, the sun shines at your back,
Gleaming through empty windows
You cast imposing shadows
And men still look up to you.

We had, like many a foe,
Set out to take you.
Sought you and shunned you.
At times we found ourselves
Completely lost, our feet in bog
And you, disappeared from our sights.

We'd meandered through fields of bluebells
Suffered blistering indecision
Backtracked, and hiked up -
Only to find that the path led down

But now we'd made the final push
Step, after determined step
Our pack weighing heavy
(How gravity hates the ascender)
Until, at last, we beheld you
From an advantageous height

We were the kings of the world
And you were our castle.

Jessica Smith
24 April 2011