Byways Poem by ian westwood

On summer days in times long gone
on tattered cycle I did tread
those endless miles in search of love
as does the tireless, timeless dove
in flight from caustic words and deeds
to seek its long-forgotten needs
towards the hill, beyond the plain,
this manhood boy pursued by pain.

And from fragmented family
along those endless roads unfolding
this heart and mind alive with glee
to meet a host, a host unscolding
to sense her waiting, waiting still
that gentle girl upon the hill.

And when, at last, the bonds were made
to break the bonds of suffering
I, with each pace, through shady glade
once more could hear the skylark sing.
And more besides, that gentle touch
of teenage hands and arms embracing
times yet undreamed, yet sensed as such,
a new day's dawn, a new awakening.

And your dear mother, so serene,
a mother far beyond compare
'twas she who loved and took me in
as in times lost, that distant inn,
a place to dwell and seek some rest
upon a daunting, awesome quest,
she offered me a loving haven
embraced in warmth and tenderness.
And with her being,
And final parting,
Forever in my heart is blessed.

And whether it was dripping taps
or broken gate or fractured glass
my talents rising to each challenge
with teenage vigour overflowing,
I'd mend the taps, replace the glass,
and deep inside, a certain knowing,
beyond these things
intrinsic in their wake,
each task, each deed,
each change of state
she always did appreciate.

And tempting fortune in lofty height
upon that bitter winter night
with dimlit torch I did ascend
to tame the savage east-whirled wind
to guide the wires around the pipe
to make the water run and flow
to sense the joy of sheer delight
admired by faces in the night
those gentle features, full aglow.

Our love was real, 'tween you and me
and your sweet, gentle family
a love expressed in word and deed
without the forceful, driving need
to seek a climax, so it seemed,
in ecstasy, dispersed in dream.

How well I now remember still
the little man upon the hill
the man that came, and came and went
and many hours with us spent
explaining things far out of sight
of ancient ruins and airborne flight
of things untold, just as his being
captivating the midnight scene.

Though all has past and turned to dust
upon a wind, a gentle gust
cast far and wide on separate ways
I still recall those precious days
the house I knew upon the hill
the house, on passing, standing still,
the house that stands in summer haze,
the home I knew as sweet 'Byways'.