Talking Stick
It is no merry meet, no pious answer to a saint, no secret sign to moot
Yet this russet eventide draws from turf-capped croft and seaweed stranded home
Folk who brave whipped furies of leaf-stripping gales along their route
Some linked by arm for safety, others ‘neath great coats tread the path alone
The heavy knock above the wailing wind crashes through the oaken door
Which open swings. “A welcome to you all” cries the walking talking stick
Shelter’s finger beckons in; the hearth ablaze entices from the floor.
A haze of heat as glasses mist; “Greetings”, whispers mantle candle wick
Who risks a goat’s foot path or treads the marsh in dark and driving rain ?
Could this be some noble cause, religious zest or perchance some grail quest ?
No bells have tolled; no priest stands robed to kneel before in shame.
Who’d chance mischief and peril on this night; who is host and who is guest ?
All are gathered. “Be seated now in comfort”, talking stick sings out,
“There’s a circle to be made, form your ring around the blazing fire.”
Orange flames leap out and climb, sparks from logs fly all about.
Warmth is spreading round the room, a luring charm of hot desire.
Cotton-wicked tallow sticks perched on window ledges call for flame
Shadows flicker from the gloom as tapers spread the dance around
“Let cold hearts softly melt,” sings out each candle’s sweet refrain
Warmth flows and laps against enclosing walls yet never makes a sound
Cold meets warm as hands in new friendship grasp; talking stick is still.
Glowing greetings spreading out from each to those beside
Sharing out of sacred spirit, thoughts exchanged for hearts to fill.
Time to pass the talking stick, where all such thoughts can reside.
“Speak through me then pass me on
Say what you want or what you will
Who you are and whence you’ve come
But for your purpose speak no ill”
The first to hold the charm of wood
Had laboured long upon the mountain’s slate
Now coughed up dust as best he could
Yet of his life did thus narrate
“I was born as a child from the warm waters of darkness
Sought my love through the dawn at the end of the night
Spring came and was spent in the arms of a lover’s caress
Summer was the quarryman splitting rock with delight
As days shorten I can see without fear or fright
Though heavy on my mind weighs the damage that I’ve done
As one life ends the next is clouded in my sight
Dust of the mountain’s death obscures the rising sun
May the scar on the mountain be left now to heal
The wounds that I made deep in mother earth
Mountains once under seas still bleed from every weal
May the peaks now be praised for all they are worth.”
Talking stick passes on, from wrinkled skin to drawn white hand
A city face thin and pale, hollow valley cheeks eroded by the flow of stress
She has come new to the valley, to a hafod high in this rain swept land
She grasps at the talking stick, and trembling holds it close to her breast
“I search for the island in the opening of the mist
For a land that lies far beyond the movement of the tide
Where mountain peaks by billowing clouds are kissed
The unpolluted land in which I might abide.”
“Ah ! The dreams we often have, the hopes we hold.”
Talking stick is pressed into another palm.
“Seek the vision by your action before you are too old;
Storms across the sky might fly before the inner calm.”
“I know not what I really seek, only that the search has now begun.
I’d like to pretend and say I will not fear what I may find.
Yet fear is there; of tick-tock stop before the journey’s done.
Or what I find to be worse than what I leave behind.”
“Now there’s an honest voice”, thinks our talking staff
“And many more besides could say the same”
If the answers were before us we’d surely know the path
Should we find before we seek then the journey is in vain
“I know not,” calls a voice across the wax-lit room,
“Whether there are deities or maybe none at all
I see the form of this rod as I can see the silver’d moon”
The candles whisper softly “Listen for their call”
“So many now are blindfold led in halls of painted glass
To bow before the statues and kneel upon the floor
Hear incantations in a language strange like some farce
To be no wiser when they rise and flee the door”
There’s a sureness in the voice that’s speaking now.
“I know that I’ve a future, that I must change my ways.
Teach me to love and listen, to respect an ancient vow
Let me the wiser leave to live out better days.”
“I’ve walked across the moving marsh beside the briny estuary
I have followed footsteps I saw before, along the muddy path
That led beside the tide swept sands, though the prints were plain to see
They brought me to this shelter, to a warmth before the hearth.”
So as the stick was passed around and candles flickered by the walls
Each sought to find themselves, searching to find the soul;
Clawing through the dreaded darkness that clothes the inner halls
Seeking within the cavern for the lode that might yield gold.
And in the ringed completion self-made blindfolds are slowly raised
A purpose that is gathering , a pilgrimage this fall begun
Friendships form, bonding minds that had seemed dulled and glazed;
Talking stick and candles smile; know their work well done.
© David Hopcroft October 2000
Park Bench Tales and other writings 