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A Poem By John Woodward: To the walls of the Farmer’s Arms Inn (Lowick, Cumbria)

Such ancient walls as these

Hold a secret close to their breast:

Not keeping something out;

Not keeping something in

But to be still as stone

And to listen.

 

If these walls could talk

They would sing,

Ring out,

Resound with the song of the Ancestors:

With laughter and good company

Conversation:

The music of conviviality.

 

When music-alive, living music

Moves through your heart between these walls,

It will move through twice:

Once on its way to the re-sounding walls

The second time as it re-bounds from the walls

Such feedback is nourishment for the soul.

Between the Lub  and the Dub

A poised still point,

And in the resounding silence faint echoes of the Song of the Forebears.

 

The lime-mortar and Silurian slate together house a repository

For timeless listening moments.

When the thrubbing song

Of fife, drum lyre and lute

The beat of music is alive

And throbs to the drum of Generations

That never dies

-The beat never stops.

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