A cipher, riddle, fragment from the past:
Who am I? Gourney, Warknell? None can tell.
Traces of a noble lineage cling
to the outline of my shadowy existence.
I dream…. of what I was,
of what I have become,
of what I could be.
My makers took great pride in sculpting me –
a goodly knight, from sound, hard English oak,
silvered in armour and in mail,
cushions at my head, and at my feet
my faithful hound. On holy days
music from the gallery above
flowed down upon me and around
the pious, praying at the altar rail.
Dust motes danced in sunbeams
streaming from high windows,
bathing the church in light; and in the night
the scrabbling of thin mice was company.
The church’s sacred space
embraced me. I was respected.
For centuries I slumbered on in peace.
Then dream became a nightmare. I recall
only being hauled through street and field,
the sound of jeers, of taunts, the yells of ‘Judas!’
the sight of faces twisted hard with hate,
the crash of rocks and eggs against my shield,
the crack of splintered wood.
Abandoned, ignominious, I lay for years
forgotten, in the corner of a garden,
in the darkness
of my own church tower.
But now I re-awake.
It seems
my life has been a journey of extremes:
from the zenith of original creation,
through nadir of rejection and abuse,
to possible new life and resurrection.
I may, perhaps, be whole again;
again, may be admired.
I dream…….
Of being lovingly re-fashioned
in sound, new, English oak;
to be re-made, my colours re-applied,
my armour stamped with silver and with gold,
my cloak renewed, my feet
pointing to heaven….
But – this is vanity, the reverie of all
who wish again for youth, when they are old.
I harbour few illusions; I remain
a damaged knight, of dubious renown.
Wood’s not a grand material, like stone –
it doesn’t last; but – once it was alive,
echoing with life and loud with song.
It’s fitting, then, that in this modest town
my final dream may yet be realised;
and I return, to where I most belong.
I have had time, aeons of time,
To ponder the absurdities of life.
Humans seek answers, explanations, certainty.
But seeking only throws up further questions.
Mystery has much to recommend it.
So – who am I? I am history, yet hidden,
a metaphor for dreams we hope may last,
a riddle, fragment, puzzle and enigma,
unfathomable cipher from the past