pspoetry Day 7 travel to a place i love

a path to the river path

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.

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