No dignity afforded in this new found fame unsought but won through chance encounters, high upon the snowy plains. Heading not those soulful eyes which gaze across the vales of time, on they probe, take scraps of skin once soft and vibrant, sampling bone and tissue, parts of manhood long ago much prized by one whose bow and arrow gained him fame among his people. Vigilant, waiting, puzzled by his non-return they hungered far below. Their village fires glowed on in hope, the mighty hunter late beyond their wildest nightmare. Seasons changed and new moons ushered in the grim reality. His loss they mourned. His name soft woven through the legends, passed from son to son. The warrior, frozen, lay among beloved slopes, his dying thoughts flew home to those he loved, for whom he died. His pride and gentle nature earned him more than he has now. Ignoble end, his naked form displayed among uncaring fools. Their cool room holds his body; they care not for his Soul. (c) Jennifer Richardson
In the valley of living death and dying life they stand bound up in continuity and transformed beauty of the soft decay where life gives up to life the surety of it all and see through this rare gap in the chain as levels drop, revealing for one sweet breath of time uncounted where drying mud gives up its treasures and a tiny creature gazes out through all Eternity, turned to stone. A living death, a long dead eye that gazes still o'er rocky shores and drowned hillside and sees as clearly now as long ago, draws upon the warming hand as gaze meets gaze and thoughts entwine as twin souls meet roaming the long drowned valley for one sweet breath of time uncounted. The one condemned to stone, the other to dust. (c) Jennifer Richardson
Stanley, Tasmania - April, 1997 A handful of shards glints in the sunshine. Peer through the hard baked mud and see a splotch of red, a red so deep, so bold yet quietly elegant lying still in the trembling hand that reached out through a barbed wire fence and drew the shards across the vale of time. Swish! Another window of history opens slightly. See the edge of the old blue pattern slip through the window of yesteryear, fall to the cobbles then slowly ease down through the mud to lie in wait for the seeking hand. Slowly the hand approaches, reaches out through the wire strands, trembles with delight, folds around the unknown piece, wills it to life and sees the window ease further up. A cup perhaps, followed by a ridge of thick blue ware that graced a table long ago. Swish! The long frocks swirl in the mind's eye. Blue on blue, a splotch of red so deep, so bold. No longer quiet the shards move again, free of the hold of yesteryear free of the fear know to the maid's hand from which it slipped, free of the loss felt in that land of isolation, free of the servitude of yesteryear. Blue on blue and splotch of red so deep, so bold. Out through a window of yesteryear they came, a handful of shards to glint in the sunshine. (c) Jennifer Richardson
There was no sign Nothing but the weathered stone mossed and lichened likened to something I once knew now long forgotten No sign to jog the memory fighting the swirling mist and fog within and without Yet something somewhere called softly something stirred Some small ray of light from a fading moon fell upon the weathered stone Slipped silent soft across my hand to lie in the dewy grass A darkened patch now brought to light And there to my delight a rusted bolt long long forgotten lay But where the old grey horse? Where went the dray? There was no sign. (c) Jennifer Richardson
In Jennifer's words: "To stand amid the ruins and dream of what was, to find a rusty old bolt and wonder where the carriage went, or to walk the wilderness revelling in the power of Nature - for me that is the very essence of poetry, and I write because I must."