Hi Grassy. The castle was Clitheroe Castle but the fact that earlier folk
sought protection at a castle could be true of many castles.Thanks for the
read and response.
http://www.heritage.me.uk/castles/clithero.htm
Colin, Ryfkah , thanks for your responses. Ryfkah it is proving a
fascinating exercise. Arthur
----- Original Message -----
From: "grasshopper" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Sunday, March 23, 2003 12:30 PM
Subject: Re: New sub: The Castle: The sestina
Dear Arthur,
Setting aside the sestina form,the treatment of the subject doesn't
really grab me. We've got rooks and tourists and wind, but I'm not sure
where the description goes.It seems to fizzle out at the end.
I think it would benefit by being about a specific castle, with a particular
history, so we knew who the 'earlier folk' were. They're not much of a
presence as the poems stands.
Kind regards,
grasshoppe
----- Original Message -----
From: "arthur seeley" <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, March 22, 2003 7:37 AM
Subject: [THE-WORKS] New sub: The Castle: The sestina
Sestina
The castle is not easily seen from these close streets.
It’s hidden by roofs, where dare-devil rooks
flip and flaunt their skills on invisible bars of wind
with grating calls. There are clues, a gale-wrung flag,
peek-a-boo towers between chimneys, flow of folk,
then suddenly it vaults skywards, buttressed by white rock.
The motte is natural, grass and shrubs over white rock.
The path clambers upwards from the quiet streets
and on this windy Sunday in early March folk
work their way up, under the circus of raucous rooks.
Shapes of heads move on the tower under the flag
that writhes and cracks under the whip of wind .
Black-bladed wings fold and shape the wind
and ride high over the castle and the white rock,
kite and cruise consummately, mocking the flag
that struggles to be free to fly over the narrow streets
where wind-bent crick-necks watch the rooks
deride the plod of gravity-lumbered folk.
A chill, shaken afternoon in March when folk
outface the pluck and buffet of a hooligan wind
to watch the antic circuits of cavorting rooks
through the meadows of air high over the white rock
where the castle broods above the snug and tidied streets,
time-defiant under the flow and wrap of flag.
The path is steep, cobble-paved and spirits will flag,
as visitors in coach and car, joined with the townsfolk,
climb up the path and steps, up from the tight streets
through the flush of crocuses quivering in the wind,
up through the racked and bared ribs of rock
up to the highest tower, above the trees and rooks.
The wind rips tears from eyes that follow the rooks
as they slice the sky with jack-knife wings, the flag
clatters its rope against the trembling pole. Below, a skirt of rock
scattered with shrub, isles of crocuses, hunched folk
collar-raised, hat-clamped and scarved, that wind
up from the smug town’s prim and Sunday-silent streets.
They leave their streets and climb to join the rooks
that aerobat and ride the wind that rags the tattered flag;
commemorate an earlier folk who sheltered in the shadow of this rock.
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