Ronald And Margaret Poem by Paul Cormier

a thanks to the Burleys

My bureau's leftover pocket-change, surplus
Of muddied brown 2-pence coin—the coin,
Nonetheless, of the Realm—spilt in a rush,
5-pence coins dime-sized but none a dime,

Reminded me this morning of old Somerset
And of two close friends in Stoke St. Michael
Where we'd lodged gated on a twelve-day visit,
And how time there bore traces archaeological,

Vestiges of another prior century's passage:
Of a disused quarry, of half-legible epitaphs,
Of the prior fuller's mill, and the old vicarage,
A village in a finitude of habitation and pause.

But lively, too, as at The Knatchbull Arms
Where one can ‘jaw over me pint of Bitter.'
Newly appointed by a Dane with charms
An oak cavern from which to reconnoiter.

Ramp down now from the steep of Tower Hill;
Look! the Parish's stuck west-facing clock-face!
Hike back to the Burley house on Tower Hill;
Praise be to the grocer who sold me the Daily!

Rain, rain, rain, the bane of England, rare
As characteristic understated British humor,
Poured down, we'd heard, a fortnight before
We found fine fettle at The Burley Roomer,

Though bright white billows of seacoast cloud
Later tumbled nigh as we rode Cornwall's coast
Enroute to Devon's moors, no roguish cloud
Near the Cotswolds put in a mac guest or host.

Eventually idle time led me on closure's round
Back to Stoke's ancient church to soberly join
Those in God's boneyard acre, their epitaphs
Legible as the silver and muddied brown coin

Atop my bureau where a quick retrieving gaze
Stung me nostalgic for the crackle and cackle
Of Ron and Margaret. Our twelve happy days
May prompt a return to Stoke St. Michael.

- 7/13-7/25 2016