"A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company!"
Thus spoke William Wordsworth, and, to an extent this must be true, we have seen in our lives the merry changes that have been brought forth through, for example, the wheel, the horse and even the locomotive steam engine, for this jocund company, being in the example of the great poet, a "host of golden daffodils", gives our very lives new thrust each day and therefore we can strive to set examples to others through a dense field of energy that becomes our very person if only we can find it during our dealings in "modern life" as it has been called by others who, at some point, will gather here on The Windhover to offer up an expression of what we care to mean by "man", "time", "landscape" and "poetry".
Perforce, we have become the second martin in the disguised gaze of an old cupboard, the poet seems to have lost his seams as he becomes loose and braided roughly like an old ship or a backward kettle striking a tin-rhythm in the open sideways triangle of orange fancy.
So, merry reader, I leave you today with this thought as we prance forth on our acquainted way homeward, like the bright horse leaves the day silken in its kitten fabric and portrays in sudden circumstance the inner barnstorm of our own relief fortitude:
When plummet sock-time kindness all drop by,
And pardoned moccasin chooses oak not sky.
When westerly fortune sings an older song,
And pencilled partridges loosen Oscar's long.
When lady blackberry opens under earth,
Do we not spider cucumber's true birth?
Thank you for your patience.
Kind refraine,
Hektor.
