Beeston

[eclipse]

The night offers me a bouquet of moons,

my night time walks along the canal. Clouds

above are like tourists, will they pass the Maltings?-canal

waters sing of journeys they have missed.

Evening shadows offer a selection of poses as

the sun rises over the Wednesday market with it's

collection of muses ready to inspire browsers.

 

I left a tear on the train track, an empty glass on the

hotel bar, eventually the light will reach haughty eyes from

the Beeston star. I placed a flower on the Crimean memorial,

a bee landed, ghosts of soldiers left after being fed by paradise,

relatives will track their ancient ties and pray in Saint John the

Baptists' church-the wind outside is wearing the uniform of war

walking across graves, there is at least one soldier the uniform

Fits who shaves memories when a prayer passes through him

as his heatbeat is echoes in the wind's footsteps.

 

Street signs ask me for directions to visit lost residents. Beeston

stories have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's

hand gleam. I dream about a hand guiding clouds that rain silver on

gardens and hives full of silver. Van Der Valk finds his own shining

fingerprints on a gold band.

[Tinker]

Oooooh I want to go there.   Thanks Barry for the introduction to this unique city.   I'd never heard of it and of course after reading your poem I had to google it.  You really captured Beeston's soul.  Right down to the bee landing on the memorial.  

I particularly liked the strophe dedicated to the memorial and the ghosts of soldiers.  It was moving. I loved reading this poem beginning with the imagery of "a bouquet of moons" right down to the "fingerprints on a gold band". 

~~Tink

[tonyv]

There's a very lovely sense of place here, Barry. I did Wiki Beeston, so I had an idea of the Maltings (there's a pic there) and other references when I read the poem.

From the poem I get the sense that there's much more to the place than what a typical tourist will experience: canal waters sing of journeys they have missed. There's an unconventional association that I've made: a collection of muses ready to inspire browsers. The poem and its namesake have inspired me to visit, to experience Beeston ... via my internet browser. 

The place has a rich history, and the poem is rife with rich metaphor. There's too much good to list, but particularly noteworthy are the wind "wearing the uniform of war walking across graves" and the "stories (that) have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's hand gleam."

Tony