William Barnhill

Silent lake lies below; casting only ripples in the calm.
Green hills flanking this water scene explode;
With beauty for those with eyes that see.
He wrote of her many changing moods;
Like the weather over the North Atlantic;
Unsettled and unbridled in her ways.
But for the gentle breeze, this day;
Trickling over leaves and branches, Grasmere is static.
Gray stone structures guard Rydal road.
The cottage dove sits beyond, enclosed;
The humble structure can only remember how the lake once looked;
When from its windows a man gazed across sleepy waters.

Did he exist, the man who walked these hills?
The one, of who it's said, wrote so much in praise of nature;
Is it just a myth perpetuated by teachers?
Making school children reflect beyond their years?
There well maybe more pomp then circumstance;
But here it all becomes possible.

I can almost hear his quill scratching;
Scratching upon the paper stock;
Within the vacuum of this place;
Within the protection of this place, Grasmere.

He told of daffodils and little girls.
His words raced out, celebrating his haunts where;
Echoes danced among the woods of fern, on hills of heather;
Beside every brook and lake side's embracing way.

What of this place that captured the soul of a laureate
Seducing with its gentle beauty and charm?
Are we ever more inspired then at first knowing;
Finding feelings that take a lifetime to mature and be understood?
Are we ever more in rapture then at the time of first appreciation?
Becoming aware of all the natural beauty that surrounds us.
I came to this place not by purpose but by chance;
Before this plebe's encounter, never knowing, of Grasmere.
And now I see it is inevitable to be here;
In this place that cries to see its reflection;
But for wordy attempts of description, no creation is deserved.
I know now it was not the writer, but this place, Grasmere.
Grasmere creates thirsts beyond the cure of water;
Evoking more than words and verse;
Instilling a longing that says, "Return to me someday;
With eyes to drink my splendor, with ears to hear the stock-dove's brooding voice;
With a heart large enough to love me, as I deserve to be, Grasmere".