Hay on Wye, Wales
A medieval market town of stone, painted trim
convenient clock tower rising above all
ancient cobbled streets, oddly orchestrated
more magnificent when rained upon
forty-two bookshops last time I was there
antiquarian, new, used, rare, every genre
a bindery, maps, music, Murder & Mayhem
ethnic restaurants, taverns, pubs with low,
exposed, thick, beamed ceilings, dark with age
immense fireplaces hold a side of beef on a spit
men at the bar appear as old as the pub, tales to
match of highwaymen and the king’s rampage
ghosts of old cling to walls, settle in oil paintings
clipper ships, sails full-blown, depicting earlier life
taking a path downhill from town to the River Wye
it come upon me, runs gently, gurgling, glistening
water flows over, around rocks, gently, sounds softened
a path to share, shaded by trees, bushes, flowers abound
beloved, tumble-down, 12th century, Norman castle
protected by Richard Booth, fondly titled King of Hay
his plan to restore lumbered on, ‘til a Trust takes over
I met him, purchased books about, by, and from him
his dreams, work, inspired, transformed a whole town
yearly festival of books, 10 glorious days, acting, singing
readers, writers, and the curious, famous and not so
a ghost wakes me in the wee hours of the morning
in an ancient B & B built in 1492, my host tells me
a lovely woman in satin, peach of color, bejeweled
someone I knew in a past life was revisiting me.
