Up Here

From up this tower you see full half the shire -
that's what they say, at least. But what I see
is just that part of it that's been to me
my world, my life, my chances and the wire

that I got caught in, like a poacher's snare:
the flowery field where as a child I'd play;
the old stone house from whence I'd made my way
to town to study; the untidy lair

I used to sit in, reading, with one part
of what I was intent on what was said
while half the stories changed and left my head
and turned to hopes for later in my heart.

Then there's the lane where we'd go for a walk,
those early evenings with my heart on fire;
my hands and breast were trembling with desire
while all we did was walk about and talk.

And then the house grew full, and living changed,
and all the hopes I'd entertained got tossed
onto the dunghill as we quickly lost
what little fire there was and got estranged.

The library's in there, my friends of old
I haven't turned to now for quite some years -
to read of love reduces me to tears;
dreamt fire's no comfort in a world gone cold.

Below the bridge the water murmurs by;
somebody's leaning on the parapet
just like I have so often leant on it
to watch the lazy stream reflect the sky

and wonder if the clouds are happy there,
beneath its shiny surface. Happy... Sad...
What does it matter? All the world looks glad;
it would be childish if I didn't bear

things like I should: the failure of each plan;
the spark that died; the peace we couldn't keep –
they're all down there. I only have to leap
to get right back to where it all began.