photo8_2.JPG

Thoroughly Alive

We must hunger after the beautiful and the good...

 

My Dad is a Poet

Isn't he grand? And a sonneteer at that. I have such fun being his daughter. My childhood was marked by the poetry of his song lyrics (and the honeyed hum of his guitar) and now that I'm grown up and trying this whole writing thing out for myself, we get to compare notes on all sorts of creative adventures. Now that he's written a sonnet though, the challenge is flung. Guess I'll have to try one too. TO HUTCHMOOT by Clay Clarkson

Three minutes (hope abates, shall fates be fair?) To grasp the key to pass Redeemer's door, That soul-worn portal to a hidden lair Of lapin love and artisanal lore.

Three days, time tests these longings to belong Yet binding ties are knotted in the swirl Of voices, victuals, books, discourse, and song A colloquy of chin-wagged words unfurled.

Hutchmoot, much lives within your storied name Not just at weekends' ends, but tales begun, More than a place and time where we have been But piercing grace that we have lived and known.

We few will carry Hutchmoot's blessed scar, So let us hutchmoot well where'er we are.

 

Sarah Clarkson2 Comments