On Visiting Wordsworth’s Grave
The open-top tour bus meandered its way down by the lake,
framed with the wondrous green backdrop,
I stared out at the view, trying to take it all in,
to soak myself in the splendour.
The commentary over the speakers droned on,
the tinny voice pointing out interesting landmarks,
on your left, and on your right,
and coming up ahead we have….
I tried to tune out the commentary,
repeating lines of practised verse in my head,
wanting to wander lonely,
and see those daffodils for myself.
I stepped off the bus at the village,
finally here, in Wordsworth’s Grasmere,
delighted to be walking the same paths
the great poet had tread.
The tourists gathered by the church-yard gates,
suggested I was in the right place.
As I neared I noticed the direction of the queue.
They were not spilling in and out of the cemetery gates,
but filing along the pavement in front of them.
I let my gaze follow the queue to see what
could be the focus of all this attention.
A moment later I had my answer.
The people were gathered in lines
not to pay their respects to the poet,
but for the famous shop selling gingerbread.
I slipped away silently through the gates,
and along the stone path by the church,
birds singing softly from the trees as I passed,
on my way to pay my respects at the grave of
William Wordsworth.
I paused a long moment by the graveside,
searching my mind for just the right words,
unable to tear my gaze from the poet’s name
carved upon the faded tombstone.
I closed the church-yard gates behind me,
and was back on the winding picture-box street,
amidst the tourist throng,
with their baked biscuits in paper bags.
Back on the tour bus, I felt inspired and recharged,
motivated beyond words, on the verge of tears,
while my fellow tourists rummaged in paper bags
and munched on their gingerbread.