I don't know how long ago I wrote this poem but safe to say it's a long time ago because the copy I have is typed. As in, on a typewriter!
I am using the poem and some of my photographs in response to the challenge on
12 Months in View on April 23rd. I may do a journal page later.
The Glover's Son
The shepherd, Constable and carpenter,
Ale sodden drunkard and the village fool
Were players on life’s stage each market day
While citizens thronged through the vendor’s stalls;
The glover’s son passed by these busy scenes
And on towards the river where mute swans
Slid silently upstream to Waterside
To nest on land beyond the waggoner’s way.
Another day might see a travelling band
Of vagabonds pass near the town. To act
The tragedy of Denmark’s righteous prince,
Or play the fool in some poor comic jest.
These sights provoked the glover’s son to leave
His well loved Warwickshire, and London bound
Did seek his fortune as a player king,
With Kemp and Burbage, all the Chamb’lain’s Men.
The written word, dramatic lines in verse
From tragic myth to comedy and love
Brought forth the fame which he desired
Not acting in the theatre’s wooden ‘O’.
At home in Stratford was his dear wife Anne
But London held his heart, the unknown love
In sonnet form address’d, the Queenly court
Where William’s plays were frequently performed.
And near four hundred years have passed, and still
His words are heard, and myriad murmurs walk
The willow’d way to see the graceful swans
And crowd the street toward the place
Where John the Glover lived, and walk the paths
Where once the bard of Avon walked with Anne
Through narrow streets and past the mill race weir
And up the hill ‘whereon the wild thyme blows’,
Or to the church where Shakespeare’s bones are laid.
To leave the town with all their homage paid.
