H'Work w/e 9.7.18 - EPITHANY
Posted: Mon Jun 18, 2018 3:06 pm
EPITHANY ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet
'Twas a night quite dark and stormy, with a raging, tossing swell
that pounded on the beaches, washing high the sand and shell,
and that shore was black and lonely, not a single light in sight
save that far off beam of silver, from the lighthouse on the height
of the rockface drear and dark and kissed with foam.
It was said that ghosts still lingered, ghosts of men whose ships were lost
on the sharp rocks near the headlands, where the ocean swells were tossed
by the winds, that travelled westwards. Raging waters wild and black
lashed the coastline, drenched the granite, spat their fury then fell back
into waiting arms of Neptune in the depths.
And some claimed on nights of calmness, when the sea sprites were at rest
they heard fluttering wings in wattle, and each one of them confessed
they had all heard muttered voices, claimed they'd seen the yellow gleam
of dim candlelight in lanterns where the ocean met the stream
and barrels hoisted high up on men's shoulders.
Drink deep to quench your thirst my lads and warm your innards royally,
and guard your tongues at all times. All here have struggled loyally
to safeguard their hearth and fam'ly - but no taxes will we pay
on this Brandy from the French tonight we haul into the bay,
but beware of traitors - everywhere they roam.
And 'twas just a flight of fancy, merely shadows in the night
as the sibilant hiss of sea awoke the demons there, despite
common sense giving assurance there was nothing there to harm
still a shiver travelled o'er him and the hairs pricked on his arm
as he sat and watched the wind whipped waves at play.
For his Mam had often told him tales of smuggling and such
on the rocky shores of Cornwall . Atop the kitchen hutch
was a bottle with a sailing ship - a ship that his Mam swore
was captained by his Grandpa and then wrecked upon this shore,
all hands lost whilst running Brandy to the coast.
This young bloke dreamt of shady lanes, no seafarer was he,
his future lay in farming, far removed from treacherous sea.
He'd a young wife and children and had no desire to dwell
where wild oceans kissed the headland and ghosts of men raise hell.
'twas a quieter life which he would make his own.
So he tipped his hat to Grandpa and he rose and strode away
and he blew a kiss to Mam, who in the cemetery lay.
Then the morning sun peeped out and like the lighthouse beam at night,
spread golden rays across the land, and shared its warmth and light.
And fluttering wings in wattle waved him home.
'Twas a night quite dark and stormy, with a raging, tossing swell
that pounded on the beaches, washing high the sand and shell,
and that shore was black and lonely, not a single light in sight
save that far off beam of silver, from the lighthouse on the height
of the rockface drear and dark and kissed with foam.
It was said that ghosts still lingered, ghosts of men whose ships were lost
on the sharp rocks near the headlands, where the ocean swells were tossed
by the winds, that travelled westwards. Raging waters wild and black
lashed the coastline, drenched the granite, spat their fury then fell back
into waiting arms of Neptune in the depths.
And some claimed on nights of calmness, when the sea sprites were at rest
they heard fluttering wings in wattle, and each one of them confessed
they had all heard muttered voices, claimed they'd seen the yellow gleam
of dim candlelight in lanterns where the ocean met the stream
and barrels hoisted high up on men's shoulders.
Drink deep to quench your thirst my lads and warm your innards royally,
and guard your tongues at all times. All here have struggled loyally
to safeguard their hearth and fam'ly - but no taxes will we pay
on this Brandy from the French tonight we haul into the bay,
but beware of traitors - everywhere they roam.
And 'twas just a flight of fancy, merely shadows in the night
as the sibilant hiss of sea awoke the demons there, despite
common sense giving assurance there was nothing there to harm
still a shiver travelled o'er him and the hairs pricked on his arm
as he sat and watched the wind whipped waves at play.
For his Mam had often told him tales of smuggling and such
on the rocky shores of Cornwall . Atop the kitchen hutch
was a bottle with a sailing ship - a ship that his Mam swore
was captained by his Grandpa and then wrecked upon this shore,
all hands lost whilst running Brandy to the coast.
This young bloke dreamt of shady lanes, no seafarer was he,
his future lay in farming, far removed from treacherous sea.
He'd a young wife and children and had no desire to dwell
where wild oceans kissed the headland and ghosts of men raise hell.
'twas a quieter life which he would make his own.
So he tipped his hat to Grandpa and he rose and strode away
and he blew a kiss to Mam, who in the cemetery lay.
Then the morning sun peeped out and like the lighthouse beam at night,
spread golden rays across the land, and shared its warmth and light.
And fluttering wings in wattle waved him home.
It took on a life of its own and took as long to write as it did to type - a couple of tweaks and that was it - probably 30 minutes max ... my muse either works or it doesn't, and this time seems it was awake 
Interesting though that you and Terry both saw something of The Highwayman in it. If anything I was probably more influenced by the TV show Poldark or which I am a huge fan ... similar era perhaps.