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| FINAL THOUGHTS |
| MEDINACELI |
| THE VALLEY OF THE KINGS |
| WINDERMERE |
A jasmine plant, her grandson's Easter gift,
Stands fragrantly within the silent room,
Reminding her of spring and flowers in bloom.
The gardens that she loved now seem to drift
Across her clouded memory, nor shift
Her saddened spirit from engulfing gloom;
Each moment draws her nearer to the tomb,
Glamour and pomp too far away to lift
Her royally back to this world's empty dreams.
Except the undying love between the two
Nothing she has is really as it seems.
She guided him and showed him all things true;
The living plant on which the sunlight gleams
Gives back at last to her what is her due.
Sylvia Herbert
April 2002
Harsh blue sky and hard, red earth,
Wind-echoing paramos,
Contrasts of heat and cold,
Where hawks and eagle-owls hover eerily,
Scooping the bowl of light - Medinaceli.
An elemental, high-perched place
Where cultures clashed long years ago,
Shield and swordblade resounding still in emptiness.
Above the glaring plain where shepherds trudge
Proud Romans raised their triple arch of triumph
- in Medinaceli
Spearheading Islam in the northern world,
The Moors of old set up their fortresses:
Pushing aside the vandals and the Goths,
Matching their fervour to Mohammed's will;
Creating there an Arab city of Heaven - Medinaceli.
And later still, the Spaniards held sway,
Printing in stone their Catholic victory
In Church and Creed and sober granite walls,
A firm confession of their Christian faith,
By lowly priest and peasant, and by the haughty Dukes
Of Medinaceli.
Night drops its shadows with the sinking sun,
The dome of heaven is adorned with stars,
God, Allah, Jupiter surveys man's paltry glory;
Locked in the lofty landscape his soul's dreams;
And presently the morning cocks will sing again
In Medinaceli.
Sylvia Herbert
After Luxor, the winding road,
Red desert sandstone; not a tree.
Heat; sky like dark denim,
Arrival at nowhere.
"Follow me", says the guide.
Obediently we flock behind him.
Then, majestic in the rock
The temple of the Egyptian queen
Miniature transport takes us further up
To the mouth of Rameses' tomb
We're swallowed up into the hillside
Like the Pied Piper's children,
Down into the dim chamber, strange and silent
Watched by royal shapes and hieroglyphic birds
This is their world, not mine.
I feel I am not wanted here.
They force me out into the dazzling light.
A final push and I fall against the lintel of the door,
Grazing my cheek. My head is spinning.
Shocked by the clumsiness of my intrusion
And the sudden sun, gasping for breath,
I stagger to a shaded seat and look around.
more tombs to visit.
There's Tutenkhamun's resting place.
I think of Lord Caernarvon and the Pharoah's curse.
The dead are all around
Sylvia Herbert
March 2006
Flashes of light on slate-blue water
Dart quicker than the greedy gulls above;
The low board jetty, a carelessly thrown stick,
Half-in, half-out where creamy swans assemble
Like a foam-edged wash, demanding bread
From tourists unprepared for charity.
Slowly the last ferries of the day
Move gently into harbour, gratefully
Disgorging passengers, who glide away
Hopeful for food in some green-gardened guesthouse.
Now the dark lake collects the silence of the trees
And draws into itself like a snail into its shell.
A swift skims softly the black silken sheet,
Then slips into the night like a forgotten dream.
Sylvia Herbert
June 2002