The Poet In The Car

Yesterday it was one of those days, one of those poetic days in the car, driving on easy roads unrolling inside their English country fields and hedgerows past ancient churches, the light coloured stone set against the deep greens of the landscape and all under one glorious bright sun. I notice the birds pairing up and see my first lark holding station above a roadside meadow. I love the drive to the medieval town of Shrewsbury and what a treat it is once there to walk around those streets of fascinating and inviting architecture so full of nooks and crannies and little architectural surprises. I love the smell of the deli by the church with its ripe cheeses and gazing through the window seems to take me back in time somehow. In the town there are courtyards and lovely coloured doors to peruse and as always I found my way to the Oxfam bookshop where I just could not resist the six hundred odd pages about the Crusades and while thumbing through them I saw the word Templar and connected immediately with my former holiday in Malta and the graves of the Templars in Valetta and once again I was with the little boy lowered inside the grain stores of the mighty walls during the great seige reliving every moment of the marvellous history of it all. Valleta harbour, sigh… Here I was, connected to Shrewsbury, to words, to ancient voices calling me and beckoning my attention to their story and who am I not to hear it so I buy the book and start my pilgrimage alongside the Knights wondering if I will be horrified but knowing too that I will be fascinated. I sit for a while on the street bench and read near the beggar-man playing his penny whistle next to his sleeping dog who’s heard it all before. On the way home I play a beautiful childrens’ choir album and try to make no sense of life but rather simply just let it happen to me under the magic of one of those warm sunny poetic days that just have something indefinable within them as the road unfurls meandering like the river I had not long walked over via the wobbly bridge, admiring the weeping willow curving according to its purpose, just as I was I think at that precise moment. I call it poetry.