Journey of Words

The troubadour rode in
Guitar strapped on his back
Posters pasted around town
Welcomed his return
As did those who knew
Of him from long before

A never-ending tour
Through city and village
Across the country
And around again
He was mostly happy
Mostly all the time

Perhaps he was happiest
When he first left home
Playing in new places
Meeting the new people
Learning of their stories
He found to be profound

In between gigs he wrote
New music
Changed those stories
Into songs
His songbook grew
Became a book of notes

First he sang of love
Then he sang of loss
Then sang of injustice
Which he fought
As a wandering minstrel
Only could

Touring the land
He sang of the wrongs
Unkind people
Cruelty and need
His music exposed
The fierce-held greed

The people longed 
For his return
To hear the blues
He played them
Wondered how
They might be freed

He thought of heroes
Leaders from history
And of whom he wrote
Suggesting possibilities
And the crowds came
To sing his words 

Over the hills
Along the valleys
He wended his way
Never wanting for food
Nor a bed
In which to stay

Sometimes he woke
Alone at daybreak
Felt the Sun
Upon his face
Arose and followed the track
Left without a trace

Sometimes he woke
Was persuaded
To stay a little longer
Even though the draw
To travel on 
Prevented any bonding

His following grew
Attracted attention
From those who
Held the keys
To dreadful gates
No one wants to pass through

One day confronted
Outside city walls
He was shown the ropes
Which clearly warned
He must change
His tunes

Injustice
Upon injustice
Freedom his muse
What was he to do
His voice would not
Be broken

His way blocked
He travelled on
Under growing clouds
Of fear and doubt
Questioning the power of his music
The attraction of his songs

Was it right
He’d had threats
For putting words
Of the exploited people
Into choruses
And anthems?

Music was his first love
And music was his last
To live without his music
Was impossible to do
In this world of trouble
His music saw him through*

He put new words
To his tunes
Took them back to town
But it would not do
Because the people sang
The only words they knew

Leaving early the next morning
He reached a steep ravine
Stopped to take some water
And some cooling shade
Underneath the oak tree
Where he was finally found

First he sang of love
Then he sang of loss
Then sang of injustice
Which he fought
As a wandering minstrel
Only could

~

n.b. NaPoWriMo 2024 Day 25 prompt: Proustian questionnaire, or something. * With apologies to John Miles for stealing a verse of his lyrics, from Music.

CLP 25/04/2024