Ode to the Tor

Sept 2nd 2010

I climbed through streets and over styles crossed fields and spoke to some younger cows who munched their breakfast happily and were delighted by the company. Then I followed a purple lady and her happy bum overtaking I passed signs this way the Tor and finally a national trust guide and many sheep are eating there. Many steps I follow up the side of yonder mount and glimpse love and quintecessial english pastures green. A bright and pleasant vale once inundated by many waters and where legends begun. Spun onwards go the erosion free path, respect paying to this sanctity and finally one last push suddenly the whole world is displayed. A rim around the horizon forming a concentric barrier. The world is spinning around the burr and the humming of traffic spreads below.
A gentle breeze south easterly. A child cries ‘Come on mum join in the exercise…lazy!’
And finally lankward man dressed in weekend decides to clamber these steps. A hover fly confuses me with a flower and nectar which to eat.
Henry the monster destroyer of all he controlled and forgot humanity, but read of machevelli, so all we have is memories and ghosts. Drawn and quartered and punished trodden in the soils. Unholy man and greedy man. 500 years later we see broken stones and pointless tower reckoned in Byronic verse. Sheltered reality hidden below crocked stone where fairies once held throne. A monument on the rim is a measure of time and men of all knowledge can’t agree what this may be. Someone not interest just solitudes ye, yes and nods and groans. Then some haphazard mythology is spoken that may explain the place in this mans mind. Perhaps there is no point?
I lay and ponder the amount and type of people built on this mastabas. They are meaning, mean, central and particular. Will be forgot by mound once they leap off it’s barrier. Can I get solace and a tranquil end with £4 until Friday and I descend to the world below? I’m never sure that I’m outside this world a shadow just passed their perceptions. I’m dead and forgot before the end has dropped. Curtailed in stoney silences and blank stares. Does anyone feel connected as they generate a funnel of hot air sucked into the heavens and vanished for naught. King Alfred stole away from this kind of person and king Arthur laid down his sword as he could see no help to provide. Overrun by wimsy and cheese sandwiches cluttering like dung smelling vaguely of pomposity and vanity. A military bee buzzes over head looking intently and ready to wipe out all these fragile skulls.


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